Though Kid You're Not Exactly A Dream Come True
by beware-phangirl
Summary: Summary: The moment Dan is told about his piano lessons, he hates the idea. And the plethora of dread and embarrassment takes the form of Phil Lester; fellow student and, now, arsehole teacher. The fact that Dan can't control his fingers as they splatter across the keys just gives Phil more reason to spit out insults, and Dan just wants to get it right; maybe that'll wipe the smirk
1. Chapter 1

Music has always been a hobby for Dan. And since his primary school days of letting his stubby fingers drum against the keys of piano under instruction from a teacher, it's been an untouched one. He sings along to the sharps and naturals that paint the air around him, he taps along to quavers and crotchets that quiver and ricochet off each other. His ears tune in to the curve of the clef and the timbre of instruments flush against each other, lyrics and chords that coax smiles or tears. Sometimes his fantasies reach out for the ability, for some familiarity, but they pull away soon enough. Music is an intangible force of which Dan is tottering on the edge of understanding, and for the most part he is happy for it to remain that way.

"But I don't _want _to." Dan repeats, irritable words crawling round his dry toast as he glares at his mother.

"It's not a case of whether or not you want to, Dan." She replies, eyes rarely straying from the pots she's scrubbing. "You're having those lessons, and that's that."

"Why, though?" Dan persists glumly, picking at the crust and watching as the crumbs scatter onto the floor. They stick in the creases of his school trousers and he brushes them away half-heartedly.

"Don't be so pessimistic about it! You used to love playing when you were younger."

"Don't anymore." He mutters, and she raises one perfectly plucked eyebrow.

"Don't be so sure." She sighs, setting the pot to rinse on the side as she turns and locks gazes with him. "I think you'll really enjoy it once you're back into it."

"I'm surprised you even think I have the ability to play. Have you seen how apt I am with my hands?" He ignores the innuendo for the cause of his argument. "And I'll have to cope with some cranky teacher."

"Actually, you won't. The teacher doesn't have any places left, but luckily for you, he's got a student who can do it. Very talented, apparently; Mr whatever-his-name-is will pass on pieces for you to play."

"Luckily!? That's even worse!"

"Really? I thought it would be a good thing." She shrugs, returning to her washing up. Dan slumps in his chair, arms crossed, lips puckered as his finger taps against his arm.

"It's really not. They'll probably be in my class as well." He spits out, words growing sharper as the idea squirms in his mind, taking the form of virulent dread and a plethora of embarrassment.

"Too late now. I've already paid."

Pausing, Dan lets his arm drop to the table as he twists to look at his mum, mouth agape. "Wait, what? Well fucking done; do I not even get a say in this?"

"Language." She reprimands, though it's completely pointless, and they both know it. "It's only for a term, if you don't like it then you can stop. Deal?" Dan holds an icy gaze with her as he thinks, before sighing and throwing his arms up in the air.

"Right, fine. Whatever." He hauls himself up to standing, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "When do they start?"

"Today, lunch, room 210, for twenty minutes." She ticks off the information, pausing as she recalls the conversation. Her hair is pulled into a loose ponytail and it swings as she spins to face him.

"Wow, don't even give me time to adjust why don't you." Her eyebrow raises again, hand rested on her cocked hip. Dan blinks blankly at her. "What?"

"We all know that given any minutes notice, you would find some way to persuade me out of it. Knowing you, a tenner would be a likely method."

"Whatever you say." Dan replies. In any other situation she would be completely and utterly correct in the fact that he'd find a way to persuade her out of something - though right now, if he's honest, he's not all too keen to argue. Complaining and excuses aside, the idea of the pads of his fingers sliding across black and white keys to ignite tunes appeals to him, he just won't admit it.

"Have a good day." Smiling, she waves a hand in a dismissing gesture.

"Will do." Dan grimaces sweetly as his sarcasm is used as final ammunition, turning his back on his placid mother as she rolls her eyes, and facing the walk to school.

"Sup." A figure plonks down beside Dan, and he knows without looking up from his lap that it's Chris. Only Chris would use terms like that. Dan rolls his eyes and takes out one headphone.

"Hey."

"And how is this fine Thursday treating you?"

"Rubbishly. You'd think I'd killed a puppy, or something."

Chris offers a wince. "What's happened?"

"I've got piano lessons, starting today."

"Nice. Well good luck, as far as I know the teacher's an arse."

"I'm not even having a proper teacher; they ran out of places so now I've got to cope with one of these 'so talented' twats." Dan informs bitterly, mild anger writhing as the situation runs through his mind again.

"Ouch. Anyone who can play piano must be one of those stuck up kids, you're going to have so much fun."

"You know, I thought you were meant to be helping me feel better about this whole thing." Dan replies dryly. Chris just pats his shoulder in caricatural sympathy, turning away as the teacher enters. She's wearing the same tight bun and painful, shrewd expression, complete with floral blouse that carries a sickeningly strong consanguinity with his gran's curtains. Him and Chris have, in the far and near past, made bets about how old she is and how many cassette tapes she owns; though, Dan's pretty sure she's only in her late thirties. Not that that makes any of it more bearable.

Minutes later Chris taps Dan's shoulder, swinging on his worn out chair to allow himself to lean closer. Dan looks across with eyes that are barely alert, face supported by his hand.

"What?" Dan whispers groggily through the drone of Ms Wilkinson.

"I thought you liked music?" Chris asks. His eyes travel up the room to check on their teacher, who is currently talking half the class through the rules of quadratic equations (the other half, at least, are half asleep and not bothered). They flick back to Dan again, searching for an answer.

"I do." Dan replies, voice becoming more alert. "I just don't want to have to have lessons with a complete stranger." He hisses. Chris shrugs, leaning back and not daring to continue the conversation whilst under the 'wrath of Ms Wilkinson', as he has so often announced in the past.

Lessons are spent, as normal, with students slumped in their seats and teachers flicking through badly written powerpoints ridden with typos. Chris spends his time craning his neck and rolling his eyes at Dan; Dan spends his trying not to watch the clock as it crawls ever closer to lunch. Outside, clouds tumble across an aqua sky that is becoming ever more grey and threatening. The breeze that spurs them on also washes over the buds in the trees. Dan tries to focus on those, but soon enough he's seen all the clouds blow across the sky and he's back to apprehension again.

"Two hours." is the first thing Chris says to Dan as he reaches the table, a smirk on his lips as Dan rolls his eyes.

"Til what?" asks PJ as Dan flings his bag down and sits.

"Until my piano 'lesson'" Dan replies, adding quotations around lesson with his hands. He slumps, groaning.

"What's bad about that?"

"Peej, you like music and people and you practically attract talent. I don't. Tell me what's wrong now."

"Right."

"One hour fifty-seven minutes." Chris pipes up.

"Chris!" Dan exclaims, exasperated. "Look, I don't want to talk about this, ok?" He continues in a more subdued tone, looking across at them. Dan regrets even thinking he wouldn't mind these lessons. He may like the idea of playing the piano, but now he's just asking why he didn't try and sway his mother.

"Okay. So, PJ, how was your art lesson?" The question causes PJ to smile broadly and begin an answer embellished with sparkling eyes and gestures, and, having coped with the passion PJ has for art for several years, they know it won't end for several minutes. Chris looks pointedly at Dan, a 'you're welcome' loose on his lips. Dan nods gratefully, smiling as Chris turns to listen, a fond grin remaining. The canteen is clamorous, with loud conversations taking place on each table that sits, askew, in the room, and soon enough PJ's ramble fades into the rest as Dan zones out.

"Dan Howell, are you ready to face your doom?" Chris says dramatically as they exit the classroom.

"If I say no, do I not have to go?" Dan asks as they squeeze through the students and exit one of the many buildings that make up the school. The storm Dan tried to watch earlier has crept closer; the sky is made up exclusively from hues of grey, the air filled with the acrid scent of propylene. Dan kicks stones as they trek along.

"Afraid not, mate. But I'll walk with you, if you want?"

"You're only saying that because there's food there."

"Maybe. Doesn't take away from the fact you'll have company, though."

"Okay. But don't let me take you away from your darling PJ." Dan teases gently, receiving a nudge in the ribs for his efforts.

"Shut it, Howell." There's no heat behind Chris' threat as he glares at Dan in some attempt to be intimidating - it sends them both into peals of laughter.

"Awww." Dan cooes. "You're so cute together!" Chris rolls his eyes, shakes his head, and mutters under his breath, "Maybe one day." Dan leaves it, then. Partly because he's given his friend enough hardship for a while, secondly because of the performing arts building that now looms over them, windows smattered with muck and timid rain drops.

"Right, well I'll be going. Go while the queue is short, or so they say." Chris says.

"They don't say that." Dan objects, lips twitched up into a smile.

"Details. Good luck, mate." Chris departs with a pat on Dan's shoulder and a last offer at a rueful glance. "May the odds be ever in your favour!"

"That was several years ago, keep up." Dan says despite the fact that Chris has disappeared into the queue that winds round the foyer of the building.

With a sigh, Dan makes his way to the back of the building, where the various music rooms - which he had managed to avoid until now, thank you very much - sat. He starts to hear piano music as he approaches; repeating notes that sway and rock together. The practice rooms are tucked away down a short corridor, lined with the glass windows of each door. Dan comes to a stop at the beginning of the corridor, trying to calm his breaths to the rhythm. At least he knows what room he's going to be in. Dan takes several deep breaths before advancing again, and through the glass of the door he can make out hands that fly over the keys. Dan can't make out who it is, at first - their back is to him. But the figure shifts as the tune settles further down the piano, and - oh.

An elegant "Fuck." falls from Dan's lips as the player moves into view.

It's Phil Lester. It's Phil Lester, with his leering blue eyes squinting slightly as he focuses on the keys, crisp collar framing his cold face.

There are worse people, Dan tries to convince himself. Like the kid who decided early on in the year that shoving Dan when they pass in the corridors was a hilarious pastime, who likes to mutter words under his breath when he sees Dan - words that, Dan always points out, are unproven as far as the guy is concerned. Dan could never be bothered to learn his name. Similarly, it could have been Lucy Jenkins, who's perfectly manicured hands were only ever clasped on her lap or pushing up her glasses. Her high pitched, snobbish tone would always be unwanted as far as Dan was concerned. But it's not him or her: it's Phil. Phil's in some of his lessons, Dan remembers as his eyes bore into the glass; he's the one who answers all the hard questions, but with a tone that makes it clear that he can think of many other, better things he could be doing. He's the one with the ironed uniform and tie that sits exactly and precisely. He's the one who Dan and Chris roll their eyes at when he's answering. Dan's never exactly decided that he _hates _Phil, but right now there's either good or bad and Phil is definitely under 'bad'. One of the many thoughts that fly through his head is that he didn't even know Phil was musical, and-

He doesn't know what to do.

He's lost at what option to take and he's three minutes late for his lesson, and he's hanging around awkwardly outside a room that no one goes to unless they've got tuition, and he's been hooked into these lessons so now he has to. He coughs awkwardly before remembering that Phil can't hear him through the glass and bombardment of notes, and now he's embarrassed as well as pissed off.

He's a lot of things, Dan thinks bitterly as he wraps his knuckles against the door, but happy is definitely not one of them.


	2. Chapter 2

Phil's eyes travel slowly up from the instrument, expression not changing. He continues to play, his fingers dropping onto the last few keys gently as the phase ends. The eye contact doesn't break; his expression is as if he were watching a tv programme, and his eyes are freezing daggers - Dan had always doubted that metaphor until now. It's too quiet now the tune has stopped. Dan is left hovering by the door, eyes flitting about and not finding a place to rest; Phil's gaze is oddly disconcerting, and Dan feels quite victimised by it, if he's honest. He clears his throat again as Phil grudgingly heaves himself up from the tatty stool and swings open the door. Dan opens his mouth to speak, trying to form some comprehensible elisions.

"You're late." Phil's voice is stiff, and he turns his back as soon as Dan walks forward. He takes the seat at the side of the piano, back slumped, arms crossed. Dan takes it as a sign to sit in the stool Phil was just at. His shoulders are hunched and he stares at his hands after slipping his bag off.

"I'm Phil, you're Dan." He continues. Funny way to introduce himself, but then, Dan isn't surprised. Cold stare and uncaring tone? He's in for a ride, that's for sure.

"That's me." Dan mutters, more to himself - the sarcasm drips from each word and he doesn't want to start a fight. Phil hears, though, and he just huffs.

"You played when you were younger, yes?"

"Yeah, I-"

"Good for you." The same snarl cuts Dan off, and his lips stick back together sheepishly.

"Grade?"

"Err, three? I don't know."

"Glad to know you care." Phil hasn't looked at Dan since opening the door; instead his gaze is fixed on the folder of music in front of him. The sheets rustle as he flicks deftly through them, revealing glimpses of manuscript - manuscript that Dan can barely decipher - and titles of pieces Dan doesn't even bother trying to recall. Beethoven has never taken a place in his playlist, and he doesn't intend to change that. Phil eventually settles on a wad of paper, laying them on the piano, respect and care in every swift movement. The piece is titled 'River Flows In You', the composer someone Dan doesn't dare trying to pronounce. The notes climb high up the stave and, from what he can remember about music, are flowing and smooth - just as the name suggests. As he studies the music, the room is silent.

"You _can _read manuscript, can't you?" Phil asks, a wry smile playing on his features.

"Yeah." Dan replies in a reassuring, certain tone. "It just may take me a while to work out." His reply fades off with a short laugh as he tries to relieve some of the inherent tension that strangles the air. Phil shoots him a disdainful look.

"Well, you'll have fun then." His eyebrows raise for a few moments, lips hiked up in a smirk. Leaning down, he picks up a book and slouches again, his well-ironed blazer crinkles and then straightens, headphones swinging from his trouser pocket. As he uses one slender finger to move his short, combed fringe out of the way, it's clear all concentration is kept by the ink printed on the pages, with none reserved for Dan - for the person he's meant to be teaching, for God's sake.

"What if I don't know where the notes are on the piano?" Dan does know, he's just curious to see how far this 'not caring' can go.

Phil glances up at him, studying him through the wide lenses of his glasses. "Can't you read?" he asks in clear annoyance, instead of mocking him. Dan looks down and, sure enough, there are notes scribbled on the chipped keys in marker; the letters are smudged, the curves of the 'c's and the tails of the 'g's lost as they continue up the ladder of black and white. Dan's lips form an 'O', and he can hear Phil scoff and can practically _hear _him roll his eyes and return to his book.

Dan wants to give up all hope, but stops himself, tells himself to take a breath and step back. People teach themselves to play - PJ did, in fact - so how would they go about this? Step by step, and patiently and steely, that's how. He scolds himself and brings his focus back to the text. He regards the time signature - it's in four four, thank god - and key signature - D major, he recalls. Two sharps, C and F. He repeats it a few times until it's drilled into his head, and mentally congratulates himself. Okay, next: the first few bars. The piece seems to work in phases, so the logical thing to do would be to work on one and go from there. It uses both hands, though the left hand part is simple enough, and they look like they provide some synchronisation - for now, at least. One hand at a time, he decides, is the best approach. The notes are high on the stave, however, and Dan has to count up. Bass clef is two down from treble, so if that's C, then that must be…

He eventually works the bass line out, and is relieved when it seems to copy the same crooning pattern beneath the melody. He also has to count up for the right hand, muttering the notes under his breath as he makes each jump. His eyes travel to Phil when the words are louder than he anticipated, and he is pretty sure there is a ghost of a smile on his lips.

Taking a focusing breath, he tries playing, gently pressing on the keys. It's louder than he thought, and his fingers shake a little on the keys, hitting wrong notes, but it's twice through now and he manages it. He plays again, smoothing it out and revelling in the feeling.

Next part.

The first thing he sees is the semi-quavers, and he withers slightly. It's got syncopation and jumps and the notes start to become sandwiched atop one another, and it's tricky even though the bass line is the same. The only way he can figure out the timing is by comparing it to the crotchets of the left hand, and then he taps it out and counts in his head before even letting his hands near the sharps and ivory. Slowly and steadily, he attempts the faster melody - without the bottom part - but still he messes up at the second bar, and he swears under his breath. Tries again. His fingers slip, and he shuts his eyes for a moment, taking a moment to concentrate.

"I know this Duke of Edinburgh's award is meant to be hard," Phil begins, and his tone is lofty, haughty, and reminds Dan of Scar out of The Lion King. Or Hades from Hercules. Or Shere Khan from The Jungle Book, "but this really is going to be a challenge." He finishes with a cold laugh. Dan feels a sting inside but shrugs it off, hurling silent curses at Phil before returning to the piece.

He finally grasps the tune, and it sounds sweet on his ears. He thinks it's familiar, now he's persevered through some of it. He probably heard it somewhere, in a restaurant or lilting out of the radio when his mum tuned into Classic FM, and already he can hear the next part playing in his brain. He practises it once more before trying to plaster the base to the melody. It doesn't work; in fact, he completely cocks it up in a flurry of flats and sharps and who knows what else. He can't bring himself to focus properly, the cold reception from Phil enough to distract him and leave him fuming. He didn't want these fucking lessons, anyway, and now he's got one more reason to be pissed. The piano won't conform under his hands and movements and he doesn't know how to control it, how to alter his tactic to get better results, and all Phil is doing is casually flicking through his book - something old fashioned and articulate, from what Dan can see - not that Dan can blame him right now. He wouldn't want to be bored to death doing this, either. It's so pointless and so stupid, and his fingers slip again, causing some wrong drivel of music. His hands bang against the notes in raw frustration, and the electric piano explodes in an ugly clash of keys and scales. Another, more audible, snigger leaves Phil's lips.

Dan throws a livid glare his way, not that Phil is attentive enough to see it. Dan groans petulantly and endeavors once more. It offers the same, infuriating product as the first time, and he tries again and again and it feels like he rehearses for hours, but truly he's only played it three times; and he really is clueless right now. He plays robotically through the bars a few times before giving in and giving up. He got it kind of right, he can always practise again later. The bars lift up into the next phase. The notes go up and down the scale, steady and it's a bit like getting caught by a tide. Dan can play a bar or two fine, fingers stuttering as he rearranges his hand to play the next. As soon as he puts the parts together, however, he mucks up. They have different rhythms and the left hand has changed ever so slightly and he has to relearn it and _ugh_.

Dan feels like he's about to scream or cry, when Phil interrupts him.

"Lesson's over," he announces, shutting his book and hoisting his bag onto his back. He gathers the sheets and shoves them into Dan's hands. He opens the door and stands aside, a clear signal that he wants Dan gone. Dan's too angry to make a comment, however; he wordlessly picks up his bag, clutches the sheets close to his chest and walks past Phil, not wanting to make eye contact but managing anyway.

"As you seem unable to arrive here on time, the lessons will now start ten minutes later. I really hope you improve by next week, for all our sakes." He grins sweetly in juxtaposition. He shakes his head again, fringe flicking, as Dan trudges away, head hanging low.

It seems the storm Dan had seen earlier caught up on them, because as he stalks off to his lesson the rain batters him relentlessly. Everyone has gone inside, the windows of classrooms up to three stories up illuminated. Dan's alone and grey with anger as he walks up the path, because of course the Arts building has to be the part furthest away from the rest of the school. Another curse spits from Dan's lips as the paper in his hands starts to sag, paper thinning and ink running a wee bit as raindrops mark the music. He hurries to push it into his bag, not caring how many folds the paper will now hold. Stupid Phil, stupid Mum and her Stupid Ideas.

"How was it?" Chris whispers to Dan, taking his gaze away from the front of the room, where a certain mop of curly hair can be seen.

"Kill me now." Dan mutters, his hair dripping onto the desk making Chris smile, but his face falls as he sees Dan scowl while he answers.

"Ouch." Chris grimaces, "Who's your teacher?"

"Phil Lester." Dan looks pointedly at Chris.

"Wow, you really got the jackpot there," Chris says.

"You're telling me." Dan doesn't tell Chris the particulars of his experience, because Chris knows Phil and has probably guessed how Dan was received; also, if he did know, Chris would offer to beat him up - which wouldn't work well for either party - and even if he never did, he'd start an unspoken feud, which would just piss Dan off.

As everyone has gone inside, they have ten minutes to kill before lessons begin. Dan spends it drying his things and recapping the notes he should have been studying all week, plus some eye-rolling at Chris and his blooming heart eyes.

Dan scribbles on a piece of a paper as the teacher waffles on, violent lines crossing each other at each sharp word in his mind. Fuck this. Fuck this. Fuck this. He only looks up when Chris nudges him with his elbow, the words "Shut the fuck up" dying on his lips as he sees what's in Chris' hands. A scrap of paper, bearing a biro caricature of Phil, large glasses and uglified features. Dan holds in a giggle and smiles at Chris, a "thank you" forming on his page where the scribbles haven't taken form.

School has always gone slowly, yet the following week blurs by. No interesting things happen, (except Dan's conversation with Chris: "have you talked to PJ yet" "no" "well you should" and as that was the only thing of note, it obviously was a crap week) but suddenly it's Thursday again. There's no point informing his mother on how the lessons are going; she'll either not believe him, or will send him anyway. So when she had asked how it went, he had just nodded and hummed, she just rolling her eyes and muttering "typical teen", and when she wishes him luck with the lesson today, he just raises his eyebrows before promptly leaving the house.

Dan had taken the week to practise the first page incessantly, when he actually could be bothered to use the half hour required. Which meant he had only practised twice, under his mother's orders. He just really couldn't be bothered. He hates it, so why should he be? The piece was there, just about, though it was still staccato, and his crappy electric keyboard hadn't helped that. He had also searched the song, listening through several times and falling in love with the calming lull of it all. Ironic, really, because as soon as he starts playing, he's just pissed off.

Arriving the ten minutes later as asked, Dan reciprocates Phil's glare and organises himself, not surprised in the slightest when Phil pulls out another book - equally as boring, from what he can tell.

"On time, I see." Phil remarks, making no effort to continue the conversation. Dan hums, copying Phil's approach and turning to his music. He runs his eyes over the music and his fingers over the keys a few times to jog his memory. This 'muscle memory' everyone speaks of hasn't given it's powers to Dan, it seems, and he can't be asked to work to get them. Going over the first few bars, he approaches slowly until he's familiar again, and builds the speed up. Ten minutes have passed, give or take, and all Phil has done is shift in his chair and turn the page. Dan scoffs; he doesn't care what Phil thinks about him, but he could at least be bothered to do what he was asked.

Returning to the task at hand - no pun intended - he lets his fingers drift over the keys as he reminds himself of the path of the notes, and then places his hands over the keys, and plays.

He pauses a bit longer than strictly allowed at the semibreves, but he continues and it's okay, it's okay. The notes stutter imperceptibly, don't affect him or the flow, and it doesn't sound like how Spotify says it should but he does it, he does it. He grins triumphantly, more pleased that he's proven Phil wrong than the fact he has accomplished a small part of the piece.

"Please, use the pedal," Phil says, disgusted. Dan's triumph slips away. "That was unbearable to listen to. It's meant to be a river, for fucks sake! Not some rainstorm, or something."

"Um, pedal?" Dan asks gingerly.

"Yes, pedal! That one, on the right. Re-pedal at every bar." He waits until Dan has found it with his foot before turning his gaze to his book again, marking the end of the discussion.

"Fucking hell." Dan says to himself. Phil really can overreact over the smallest of things.

"Have more respect." Phil spits out suddenly, making Dan jump. "I may be in your class, but for now I'm your teacher. Do what I say."

"Not that you've said much."

"Not that you care. You really are pathetic, aren't you?"

Dan thinks about rolling his eyes, but decides against it. He has no clue what Phil has against him, but apparently he doesn't care. So be it.

Dan figures out the pedal - by pressing down several times and seeing what happens, but figures it out nonetheless - and tries to use it with the piece. Now he's got one more thing to concentrate on, and it makes everything harder. The first part sounds nice, though.

The piano has a shiny black surface, the smooth facade scratched and chipped. The light in the room makes it reflect everything, though, and Dan can see Phil as he plays. He can see him as he moves his hair out of his eyes, eyes that are dim compared to what Dan can remember about his actual eyes. His eyes continue to dart around the room as he plays the same few bars at the bottom of page one for the fourth time. The music falls apart as he slips, and he utters a noise of frustration, carrying on his habit of smashing his fingers against the keys.

"You need to try harder." Phil says coolly, turning another page.

"I _am _trying!" Dan growls, volume uncomfortably high.

"No, you're not," Phil counters, "If you were, then you wouldn't be able to look round the room." He looks up from his book at Dan, shooting him a pointed, condescending glance.

Dan's stumped. He's right, he was looking round the room - and at Phil - but how did he even see? Dan didn't see him looking. Dan can't argue back, is the point, and as much as he doesn't want to say Phil is right, there's nothing he can say, so he keeps quiet.

He goes through several more failed endeavors. The notes aren't forming at his fingertips, but he doesn't do anything to change it - Phil hasn't told him how, has he? - instead looking round the room as his fingers plonk down on the keys, the pedal keeping the wrong chords ringing out atop one another. A black case is nestled under Phil's chair, and it wasn't there last week, if Dan recalls correctly. There's a zip that trails round, making the outline of a violin, Dan reckons, and it's open at one end, revealing a faint red strip of velvet. The outside is smooth and well kept. Phil's foot is against it, like he's cradling it to him.

"Is that a violin?" he asks eventually, giving in to the fact that, okay, maybe he isn't paying attention.

"I'm so glad I got someone so observant as a student." Phil says, "But yes, it's a violin."

"You play?" Dan asks slightly sceptically.

"Yup. I'm more talented than you thought."

"Ha," Dan scoffs. "Prove it."

Phil cocks an eyebrow. "Is that your way of asking me to play?"

"I'm so glad I got a teacher who's so observant." Dan mimics. It coaxes a small, sly smile from Phil.

"No, I won't play. You're not concentrating as it is." Phil replies nonchalantly, and Dan huffs. Dan is well aware that Phil is treating Dan like how Dan would treat him, if he had beaten him to it - but he's not the teacher in this situation, is he?

"It's nearly the end of the lesson," he says eventually, glancing at the old clock on the wall. "I may as well go now." He doesn't offer time for objections, standing up and bunching up the papers and making his way to the door.

"Thanks for the feedback, teacher," he mocks - very pathetically, but it makes him smile through his fury anyway as he leaves.

"So, how was the second installment in The Battle Between Good and Evil?" Chris asks expectantly as Dan takes the desk in front of him.

"You seem a bit too happy about this," Dan replies. Chris shrugs.

"It's a thrilling series."

"Right."

"So?"

"Do you ever just want to hit someone?" Dan says in answer.

"All the time." Chris replies, glancing over at PJ.

"Ew, gross." Dan scrunches up his nose, smacking Chris playfully when he just smirks. "Why don't you tell _him _all this stuff, instead of boring me?"

"I'm not one for the lists, but: one, you are too much fun to annoy," he receives another hit, "Two, no way am I telling him that! He's my friend, you know. And yours too; I don't see you helping me out with this."

"You didn't want me to, until now, apparently."

"I don't even want you to."

"So why did -" Dan pushes, feigning being clueless.

"For argument's sake, Dan! It's a thing people do!"

"Seems like you could do with a certain someone to calm you down." Dan raises an eyebrow.

"Hate you."

"Mmm, no you don't."

Chris sighs. "Right, okay, whatever. But you never really gave me an answer."

"About what?"

"Don't fucking play dumb with me!"

Dan laughs, "Okay, sorry. Phil is an utter twat. Can't be arsed to do anything, and he's so sarcastic it's painful."

"A bit like you, then."

"Har har."

"So we hate Phil then?"

"Hate him."


	3. Chapter 3

Dan has always hated Mondays. That seems to be the agreement of all high school students; hate Mondays, love Fridays. And with Thursday added to the list of days to hate, Dan's running out of days to like, if that's possible to start with. Friday passes, and the motivation starts snowballing again.

"I'm going to find out all about Phil by Monday, and that's a promise," Chris says as they walk out of the gates, the blossom of nearby trees fluttering across the asphalt and the billowing clouds in the sky carrying a storm, a storm that Dan predicts will pass over by Saturday.

"How are you going to do that?" PJ asks from the other side of Dan, leaning forward to shoot a bemused look his way.

"Facebook," Chris announces smugly, carefully watching Dan's face.

"No, no, don't you do dare," Dan warns, "Don't you fucking dare." His voice lacks the sincerity he'd intended.

"Can't stop me," Chris points out, "And I'm sure PJ would be happy to accompany me into the city to do a little...observing."

"You're just having a laugh now," Dan scoffs.

"Oh yeah?" Smiles have spread over all their faces.

"Yeah, I mean how will you know he's in town?" PJ says.

"More importantly, how do you intend to get PJ to go on a date with you?" Dan adds, enjoying the sudden pink on Chris' face a little much. He'll apologise later.

"Maybe not the town trip then," Chris compromises. "But the Internet can reveal a lot." he wiggles his eyebrows. "Oh, gotta go, see you!" Spinning on his heel, he takes off down his street.

"How convenient," Dan mutters darkly, "Don't you dare!" he calls after him. Sighing, he shakes his head. "He's ridiculous," he says to PJ.

"You're telling me," he replies, smiling fondly. "See you then."

"Yeah, see you," Dan returns as they part ways, Dan scrunching his face up as he wonders what he's going to do about his piano and his teacher.

"Dan?" Dan's Saturday evening of lying on bed, mind tuning in and out of the music that's playing, is interrupted as his mum calls up the stairs. The house goes silent again, and he thinks he's got away with it when the creak of his door cuts through the music.

"Ah, Dan," she says, "Are you going to do any practise?"

"What, on that old thing?"

"Dan," she shoots him a disdainful look, "I paid for these lessons, you may as well try."

"Yeah well, I didn't ask for you to."

"Even so," she walks over and turns the keyboard on, dusting her fingers over the keys, "It may be worthwhile. I thought you liked playing?"

"Yeah, if I could actually play." Dan finally lets his frustration slip out as he sits up.

"That is what the lessons are for, Dan."

"Maybe, but I just can't get a hang of it," he sighs and stands grudgingly, slipping into the piano stool. He tries playing the first few bars to prove his point, the routine slip of his fingers severing the flow and provoking another sigh. "I just can't get it to work," he explains, voice rising at the end. She hums to herself, eyebrows knitting together. Dan stares determinedly at her.

"Maybe you could ask PJ for help? Invite him round! I haven't seen him in a while." she offers. Dan hums, shakes his head.

"I don't know, Dan. Just, try it for a bit longer? Please?"

As much as the idea of saying no appeals to him, Dan wants to achieve instead of giving in and giving up. He just wants to get it right; maybe that'll wipe the smirk of Phil's face. Asking PJ for help is a plausible idea…

"Okay," he answers eventually.

"Great!" she grins and kisses his forehead before walking to the door. "Practise, then. And lights out no later than half eleven," she calls over her shoulder.

Dan rolls his eyes. "Yes, Mum," he mumbles in a bored tone.

The clock on his bedside table ticks several times as he sits in silence. Incomprehensible and unrememberable thoughts skim through his mind as he stares at the wall, before he shakes himself out of his stupor. The keyboard sits in front of him, screen flooded with orange light, but Dan doesn't approach yet. He can practise in a second.

Stretching behind him, his fingers clasp his phone and he pulls it towards him. His fingers wrap against the screen as he mulls over what to do. Opposite, his curtains are drawn but sag in the middle, unveiling a stripe of the pensive nighttime air. The image seeps through the gap in the fabric, the glow like a candle wick trailing over the horizon, and it's presence makes the room more sultry and enclosed, everything aware of the dark that lurks outside.

His fingers swipe across the screen, and his period of wondering is broken by the formation of speech bubbles on the screen, the remnants of his and Chris' last conversation shining on screen.

_**dan: you didn't actually stalk phil did you?**_

The reply comes back soon later, eliciting a sigh of relief from Dan.

_chris: u didn't actually think i could be asked, did u?_

_**dan: true**_

_chris: anyway, his facebook was practically nothing_

_**dan: so you did look?**_

_chris: no, i just knew, you twat_

_**dan: maybe you should use your new found observing skills on pj?**_

_chris: hm_

The conversation seems to drift to a close so Dan chucks his phone to the side, swivelling back to the keyboard as the device lands screen-down on the bed.

"Right, Dan," he says. "Time to get this sorted."

Phil's smirk comes to mind, and maybe he shouldn't be developing his habit of talking to himself, but he dismisses it with the decision that it's best to get it out the way now.

He nearly falls asleep at the keyboard with his fingers stiff and his eyes bleary. In lethargic movements he stumbles into his bed, the notes of a piece that has improved somewhat evanescing into the air but floating in and out of his consciousness. The ending can wait for another time.

"Did you hear about Chris' Sherlock Holmes cosplay, then?" PJ asks as they chatter at break.

"What, his complete failure? Yeah, I did," Dan replies.

"How can you laugh, you didn't want me to in the first place!" Chris retorts, shrugs. "Anyway, he loves having a social life about as much as you love sport," he directs the comment at Dan.

"Ha, yeah. True," he chuckles.

The bell tolls, and the small group evacuate from the cafeteria. The corridors are bustling, built of rushing bodies and yells and boisterous wrestling. They stick to the walls, communicating by craning their necks to look behind or in front. Dan's talking to PJ when someone crashes into him, an arborescent arm shoving him backwards. Dan just brings himself to his senses before his head is flung back into the lockers.

"Watch it, Howell." Phil growls before swiftly moving on, Dan watching wide eyed as his head ducks into the masses. Chris whistles in shock.

"What a dick," he comments. Dan hums in agreement as he rubs his head, gesturing to Chris to persevere onwards.

"Are you okay?" PJ asks.

"Yeah, yeah, fine," Dan replies distantly. "Just a little shook up. I'm used to it."

"This does remind me of something," Chris dodges a teacher before turning and smiling. "One thing I did find out; Lester has a girlfriend."

"What?" Dan says incredulously.

"My thoughts exactly," Chris enthuses.

"Who?" PJ asks.

"I dunno, a Laura S-something,"

"I had no idea."

"That's because you have appalling knowledge of gossip, Peej," Chris teases. The masses have cleared and they can walk side by side again. They slow their walk down, so as to finish the conversation before they enter the classroom.

"Apparently we all do," Dan points out.

"Maybe. But anyway, Lester having a girlfriend," Chris laughs again. "Funniest thing I've heard in a while."

Phil finally opens the door, after letting Dan stand outside for a substantial amount of time.

"Survived our little meeting then?" he asks with a complacent smile.

"Could say that," Dan says, a confidence trickling into his words which he doesn't feel. He notices more as he enters; how the violin is back, and Phil taps it with his foot when he settles in his seat, and how his hair is less combed than normal. He's not wearing a blazer and he's rolled the white cuffs of the school shirt up his arms, a small collection of wristbands entangled over his thin wrist. His shoulders are broad and his arms sculpted, perfect for piano playing - and, apparently, violin playing.

"In your own time," Phil quips after a few moments. Dan pulls a face before starting to play. He plays swiftly through his past struggles, and his smile grows as he plays, fingers nimble over the keys as the proof he's disproved Phil fills the room in the form of sound. He reaches his limit eventually, when the notes start to flow incessantly, the river's course speeding up. It's a jumble of fingers which he can't get around, and he's drowning in the notes. He moves on once he's stumbled roughly through it, but though it slows it still catches him out, and continues to do so through several minutes of attempts.

Phil's still reading, oblivious.

"Could - could you please put the book away? At least _look _like you care?" Dan asks eventually, voice infuriated and sharp. Phil looks up, lips pursed.

"As you wish," he replies condescendingly, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. He puts the book away agonisingly slowly, before leaning back and starting to study his nails nonchalantly. Dan practically screams in frustration; Phil laughs to himself.

"What?" he simpers.

Dan's up in an instant, the lid of the piano slamming shut.

"I've had it with you! Why can't you at least try to teach? I clearly can't play this and you're just sitting there, doing fuck all!" he yells, hands flying about. He's fully aware that he's being petty and it's infuriating, but not as infuriating as the fact that Phil knows, too, and he's sitting there looking down at Dan, finding the whole situation amusing.

"Not my fault you're shit," Phil shrugs, eyes sparkling.

Dan snaps.

"Fuck you," he spits, hauling his bag onto his back without breaking eye contact. Phil's eyes bore into his, create a bond lined with icicles, and a humour that makes Dan's fury swell. Dan lifts his finger up, searching for more to say. Words fail him, and he has to settle with jabbing his finger at Phil and another venomous "Fuck you". He exits with a slam of the door, wood on wood and shoes on plastic filling his ears as they redden from anger and embarrassment.

He doesn't see or register anything as his legs power him forwards, but suddenly he's in the cafeteria. Finding Chris and PJ easily enough, he throws himself down, hands clawing violently at his hair. Their conversation stops abruptly.

"What's wrong?" PJ asks, "What's happened?"

"Nothing."

"Dan, I know you have a low opinion of my intelligence, but it doesn't take a genius to know something's up," Chris says.

Dan takes a few breaths and he finds himself calming down substantially.

"I snapped. May or may not have stormed out. And slammed the door."

"Why?"

"He's just so infuriating! He does nothing the whole lesson; all he does do is make me feel like a fucking idiot, and he finds it hilarious, apparently. I don't want to be in the same room as him. And this piece is so hard and…" Dan trails off, shaking his head.

"Okay, calm down," PJ soothes. "What exactly happened?"

Dan shuts his eyes and exhales before explaining.

"I was trying to play this part in the piece, for like the tenth time, and he was sat there reading like he always does. So I ask him to stop reading, and I don't even know why he's not helping to start with, and he just smiles and puts it away, and then continues to not help! So I lose my temper, and yell at him and storm out. He's just mocking me, has done since the start, and I hate it. And now I've made a bigger fool of myself than ever, and I hate having these lessons. No way am I going back."

"You sure?" Chris asks cautiously.

"Of course!"

"Maybe you should-"

"Fuck no! Why are you trying to make me?"

"-because your mum wants you to take these lessons, and you shouldn't give up."

"No way," he shakes his head resolutely. "He makes me feel like crap, Chris - as well as the fact he's annoying as fuck."

"Looks like someone needs a hug," It's one of the only times Dan accepts Chris' offer, collapsing onto his shoulder and burying his head into the crook of his neck. It's an awkward side-hug but Dan's grateful nevertheless.

"I'm not going back," he says weakly. Chris sighs.

"Okay."

By the time the next Monday arrives, Dan's calmed down, but has in no way forgotten about it. He's not going back; he doesn't need to tell his mother, just not go to the lesson. He approaches Chris and PJ with a smile.

"Hey!"

"I think you should do your piano lessons."

Dan blinks at Chris. "Hello to you too."

"Hi. But, I'm serious."

"I thought we'd agreed we'd drop this?"

"I was just waiting until you were calm about the whole thing. But I think you should," Chris admits.

"No! I don't want to! Tell him, Peej," Dan jerks his head at Chris.

"Don't drag me into this."

"Dan, listen, please?" Chris looks steadily at him, and Dan gives a disgruntled sigh.

"Fine."

Chris smiles in relief. "Okay, cool. I know Phil is a dick, but you should go back."

Dan goes to object, but Chris speaks over him.

"Ah, you said you'd listen, so listen. If you go back, you'll prove Phil wrong. He's probably laughing at you, thinking he's succeeded in scaring you , I think you could enjoy this piano thing, if you actually try."

"I was trying," Dan mumbles.

"We all know that's not true. You were, in some respects, as bad as him, but that's a story for another time. Anyway, I think it would be worth going back just to prove Lester wrong," he concludes.

"Since when was he this articulate?" Dan turns to PJ, who just shrugs his shoulders.

"Funny," Chris says dryly. "So, what do you say?"

Dan considers Chris' points, realising he is very much right about proving Phil wrong. Dan would very much like to make Phil be the idiot for once. Phil doesn't scare him, so why shouldn't he go back?

"I'm not going back to just make an idiot of myself again. What's the point of proving him wrong if it ends up with me being the fool again?"

"Well, as I said, you need to try more. With your playing, that is. Practise more, so when you go back you're some music genius."

"How do you propose I do that?"

"Well, practise more than twice a week, for starters. And I'm sure Peej would be willing to help?" Chris aims the reply at PJ, who nods eagerly at Dan.

"Sure!"

"There we go, then," Chris claps Dan on the back. "That's all my wisdom for the day, I'm afraid."

"For the year, probably."

"Shut up," Chris objects. "So, what do you say?"

Dan raises his palms to the sky. "I guess I have no choice."

"Brilliant!" Chris celebrates. He takes it as permission to end the conversation and he starts to walk across the grounds to the school, the others walking by his side.

"Why are you so keen, anyway? Are you a Diano shipper?"

"Busted," Chris grimaces.

"He just wants you to whoop Phil's arse," PJ explains. Chris nods in agreement, and Dan laughs warmly. He's in some trepidation about this new agreement, but with several days to try and master it and PJ to help him, he could be okay.

Dan sets it upon himself to practise for at least half an hour each day, letting the seconds tick by as the world continues, while he's sat at his stool. The notes escape under his door and probably fill the house, but he doesn't care. He finds that the goal passes by sooner than he thought possible, and suddenly darkness is glued to the windows like ornate wallpaper. His mum smiles when he comes down during practise.

"How's it going?" she asks.

"Good, yeah."

She nods, smiling again. "I'm glad you're practising more."

"So am I."

Her smile grows as their gazes meet for a few seconds, hers holding what must be pride.

"So, what did you come down for?"

"Food."

"Of course you did," she rolls her eyes. Dan laughs and scoots over to the cupboards, grabbing a snack before walking to the door.

"Good luck with playing!" she calls over her shoulder.

"Thank you!"

He eats while scrolling on his laptop, and as soon as he's finished he finds himself back at the keyboard. Thoughts of Phil are lost as he perseveres, and all he can think about is making sure his fingers find the next keys as the flow carries the notes forward.

Wednesday, he takes PJ up on his offer and invites him round.

"Thanks for doing this," Dan says as he shoulders open the door.

"No problem," PJ replies.

"Mum, PJ's round!" Dan calls once they're inside. "You can take your shoes off, if you want," he then says to PJ as his mother appears in the hall.

"Hi, PJ. You took my advice, then?" She then turns to Dan.

"Seems like it," he starts up the stairs, PJ on his heels.

"We'll be upstairs if you need us!" he sings.

"I wouldn't dare interrupt such musical genius! Or you!" she replies with a jaunty grin, before returning to her study.

"Don't encourage her," Dan cuts PJ off.

"I wasn't going to!" PJ can't help a toothy grin.

"You were!"

"Whatever you say. So, where's this keyboard of yours?"

The collection of books and school work has no longer taken residence atop the keys since Dan has taken up playing; most of it is either on the floor on the stool, so Dan sweeps it out of the way before making a flamboyant show of the instrument.

"Wow."

"I know, high tech," he sets himself on the stool, pulling up another chair for PJ. "So, how are we going to do this?"

"Well, I'm not a trained teacher..."

"I can guarantee you will do a better job than my current one."

"True. I'd say, let's see how you're doing so far."

"Great," Dan turns to the keyboard, flexing his fingers before placing them on the keys.

"You were going to have to play at some point, Dan."

"I know!" He arranges the paper and adjusts the settings. "Okay, let's do this."

Two days of practise had meant he had perfected the first part or so, but as the beat quickens he still finds himself falling into it. It ends in a mess of fingering and bursts of notes.

"Okay," PJ nods in thought. "The first bit's good. Some flow problems, but I think we can solve that. The end bit, though."

"Yeah. I have no fucking clue what to do there."

"He really has taught you nothing, hasn't he? I think the main problem is your fingering; if you get that sorted, it should be quite easy."

"Whatever you say."

"Do you want me to play it, to show you? It should help give a better idea of everything."

Dan cracks a broad grin. "Thank God you asked. Yes."

PJ reciprocates the smile, chuckles lightly. "Cool."

Dan shifts seats for him and PJ readies himself. "Try and watch my fingers and which ones I use. That's what I mean by fingering, by the way."

"Well that's a relief," Dan jokes.

"Grow up."

"Right, okay. Go for it."

PJ nods. There's a few moments silence, and PJ's mouth moves slightly with an unspoken count in, and then he begins.

He leans into the piano, almost, as he plays. His head sways ever so slightly in evasive rhythms, eyelids fluttering. The lack of a pedal makes the notes jittery but PJ finds a way round it, hands resting on all the keys before dissipating into the next. Dan watches intently. He notes where PJ's rhythms differs from his own, and how his hands twist round each other to allow the next notes to be reached. A smile rests on Dan's lips as he studies from PJ's shoulder. At one point PJ looks up and grins at him before launching back into the music. All too soon it ends and the last notes sink into the walls.

"Wow. Okay, I may as well give up now."

"Don't be ridiculous. You can do it. Now, get back on your seat," PJ instructs, and Dan returns to the keys.

"Is the head banging necessary?"

PJ laughs. "No. That's just my technique. You'll have your own."

"Great. So, we have," Dan cranes his neck to regard the clock, "two hours to do this. Where do we start?"

"The beginning's a bit sketchy, but it can be left for a bit. What we need to work on is that bit you can't do."

"Yep, that makes sense." Dan starts playing from the beginning again.

"No, Dan, you can skip that. Practise that particular bit, not the whole thing." PJ chides slightly.

"Oh! So that's where I've been going wrong all this time."

"You are so an idiot. I'm glad I've managed to teach you something," PJ starts shuffling the sheets, pulling out the last two pages. "It starts going wrong about here, right?"

"Yeah. I have played through it but I can't do it."

"Okay. Play it again, so I can see?"

Dan does so, and PJ nods. "Instead of these fingers, use these ones." He demonstrates, leaning round Dan slightly.

"Right."

"Got that?"

Dan pulls a reluctant face. "Kind of?"

"Fair enough. I've got an idea." PJ pulls a pencil from his school bag, sketching some numbers some of the notes and circling them. "So that's five meaning your pinkie, and so on."

"Okay, so like this?" Dan plays achingly slowly, adjusting his technique where PJ has instructed.

PJ smiles. "Yeah. Right, we're getting somewhere."

"Don't jinx it."

"You need more confidence. Now, play that bar a few times 'til you can play it, then we'll work on joining it to the next, and so forth until we get to the end."

"Peej, we've only got two hours," Dan says.

"I know! It won't take too long, most of the bars are just repeats; we can do this."

Three times through and Dan can play it, so PJ tells him to link it up to the next and keep playing until he gets to another bit that catches him out. It is mostly repeats, like PJ said, but it changes slightly, so Dan plays the bar a few times until he masters it. The lesson carries on like so, more numbers and markings appearing over the manuscript. The ending is calm, with the notes spreading into each other like ripples, and once Dan has managed to play it, he finds it therapeutic to play. After he has accomplished the last notes PJ prompts him to play from where they had started, and he gets through the music without any faults on his part.

"I did it!" Dan exclaims, high fiving PJ.

"Well done! Now, let's work on the start."

So Dan scavenges around for the first few pages, and PJ talks him through it. When asked if he knows how to use the pedal, Dan laughs and shakes his head. He's told to lift it at the beginning of every bar, at the first quaver.

"Are you being serious, Peej?" Dan questions when PJ assembles a short pile of books under the keyboard, one book balanced at an angle.

"Absolutely. You need to be able to do it with pedal."

The pile tumbles several times, sending both parties into too-loud laughter; it proves to be an auspicious choice, though, in the end. By the time Dan's mum knocks on the door, the piece is assembled, the pages of music glued together with ephemeral slips and the rustles as PJ turns the paper.

"Is it going okay?"

"Yeah, yeah it is," Dan smiles, PJ nodding beside him.

"Great," she grins, "I'll leave you to it. Oh, and I brought some food for you, if you need it." She chucks two packets towards them, PJ's hands stagnating their flight before they come into contact with Dan's face.

"Thanks."

"No problem. I'll be going now," she nods and leaves, the door swinging shut into the silence.

"Shall we go through it again?" PJ asks eventually. Dan nods eagerly.

"Yes please."

"Thank you for that," Dan says as he shuts the door behind him, leaving the two outside in the street. The only movement is the buzzing electrons dancing in the light like honey that percolates from windows along the street. The air is tight like guitar strings.

"No problem. And if, for any reason, your skills don't impress him, I am happy to help again." PJ makes to leave, but the shadow shifts around his body as he turns back round. "Actually, I am happy to help whatever."

"Thanks, Peej." Dan smiles, fingers digging into his pockets.

"Anytime." PJ's shadow sinks into the others, figure blending with the trees and gates. Dan remains outside for uncountable minutes, until the cold nips at his fingers and his cheeks. The guitar strings begin to sing.

Dan goes to the lesson early, determined to play one time more before, as Chris calls it, judgement time. His heart might be pounding as fast as the tempo of the piece that lies on the music stand, but he's too focused to tell. The piano is bigger than his keyboard, intimidating almost, but the keys are welcoming.

He starts to play. The use of the pedal makes the song smooth, wave after wave of sharps flowing under muscle memory that has finally been granted. Everything is cliches bundled on top of each other as an uncontrollable smile takes over his face. The sheets are spread out, corner to corner, in front of him, and there's exhilaration between the notes as he finds himself playing without noteworthy fault. It's not perfect, but nothing ever is. Whenever it plays right there's this hit, a lively ease. Dan starts to laugh, almost, with euphoria, the song proper as it flies in the air.

He's unaware of the shadow that falls, leaning against the door frame; the laugh reaching the shadow's ears first, and then the music.


	4. Chapter 4

Dan continues to play, his fingers dropping onto the last few keys gently as the song ends. A triumphant smile slips onto his face, euphoria bubbling inside him. He did it. He only went and _did it_.

He looks up. Phil's by the door, watching intently, a pleased smile playing on his features. He's probably been there all along and oh God - Dan's grin falls away; he shrinks into the stool, fingers flying away from the instrument. His face is most definitely a sweltering red. He opens his mouth, but excuses never enter the silence: Phil speaks first.

"That was great," he says. His voice is gentle and doesn't break the hum of the last few notes; his smile is timid, though Dan can barely believe that.

"Yeah?" Dan coughs out.

"Yeah. Your flow was good, and you added your own character to it." Phil comes to sit down on the stool beside Dan - it's just big enough to seat them both - and Dan flinches. He shuffles along to the far end of the stool, until the cracked cushion collapses out beneath him.

"I'm not going to hit you, Dan," he teases lightly.

"Had me fooled," Dan mutters. The words escape before he can stop himself. Phil's face twists, lips pursed.

"Right."

A silence passes in tense seconds, both aware of the piano and the questions and the boy barely ten centimetres to the side of them.

"So, did you practise?" Phil asks in an upbeat tone. It's an 'eventually' and they both know it.

"Yeah, quite a lot, in the end. And I got my friend to help me. I think I can cope, now." Dan's eyes sketch the eroded edge of the piano keys, fingers tapping smooth rhythms on his knee.

"PJ?" Phil asks. Dan thinks he's watching him but he daren't look up and see.

"Yeah." Dan nods. "Wait. How did you know?"

"I'm in his art class," Phil explains. If Dan didn't know who was beside him, he wouldn't think it's Phil speaking. Stripped of the harsh bite and sarcasm, his voice is friendly and jaunty. Dan doesn't know what's happened. "He's a good artist."

"Yeah, he is. And you? What's your art like?" Dan asks, the questions sounding forced in his mind.

"Eh, nothing much. It's _note _exceptional."

Dan finally looks up, smiling and looking at him incredulously. Phil's grinning knowingly, and he laughs warmly when his eyes meet Dan's.

"Was that a pun?" Dan says. Phil nods, giggles.

"It was terrible, oh my God," Dan continues, burying his head in his hands.

"That one may need a bit of tuning."

"I swear, I will push you off this stool right now," Dan's threat is punctuated with laughs. They lock eyes again, Phil pouting and Dan holding back laughs. Eventually they give in, laughing together. And it's odd to be laughing with Phil and the joke isn't even _that _funny_, _just their way of breaking the atmosphere. It dies down again, Dan coughing awkwardly.

"Okay," Phil says, turning towards the piano and resting his fingers on the plastic. "Come on, you do it too," he urges. "I want to show you something."

(Dan swallows all comments on how was he to know that's what Phil wanted; Phil's never wanted to show him something before. Because there's something in Phil's expression and his eyes, and for once it's not hostility).

"Show me what?" Dan inquires, following suit.

"A piece, silly. You said you think you'll be able to cope, now." Phil grins at him.

"Okay, it was a stupid question, point taken. Play, maestro."

Phil beams before pressing down on the keys his fingers have found, pausing every bar and watching as Dan repeats them. Phil instructs him to play chords and single notes in a buoyant rhythm, a rhythm that awakens some memory that Dan can't pinpoint. His hands have to jump across the keys, and instead of tutting when he gets it wrong, they both laugh. It takes a few times through before the beat has settled in Dan's mind, but Phil repeats it patiently. The window to the side lets in light that dapples Phil's fingers as he plays. It doesn't reflect off the keys, not quite - they aren't shiny enough for that - but the sunlight glides over them and the shell of the piano. Dan thinks he can get used to this - though he doesn't know what 'this' is.

When Dan can play it alone, the speed faster than a few minutes previous, Phil lets out a childish cheer that makes Dan laugh.

"Ready for another part?"

"Of course," Dan replies, and it sounds like the most obvious thing in the world.

"Awesome." Phil keeps smiling at him, and he seems to be excited, and Dan's too relaxed and relieved to care.

So Phil plays another part, notes scaling up and down. His fingers blur to maintain rhythm, and though Dan tries to copy, he can't find the right melody. Phil just shakes his head gently, using his own fingers to nudge Dan's into place. Dan makes a noise of realisation each time and nods, smiling sheepishly at Phil.

"What is this piece?" Dan asks, the chords coming to life beneath him as he speaks.

"You'll find out, soon enough," Phil replies. He waits until Dan finishes before continuing. "That's great. Now, which do you want to do?"

Dan shrugs. "The chords, I guess?"

Phil cracks a relieved grin. "Good, because that's what you needed to do," Dan chuckles at that, "Play that, then, and I'll join in."

"Cool," Dan says, drawing a tempo from thin air as he plays the chords and notes again. Two times through, and Phil comes in with the other part. The two mix in syncopation, and as it loops round Phil adds other little trills and spins and phases - improvisation, Dan reckons. It's a jazzy piece and something Dan is now sure he's heard somewhere. It makes him rock into the chords, and Phil starts nudging him with his shoulder, making him move with the music.

"Can you play faster?" Phil asks. Dan says nothing in reply, instead speeding up the incessant thump of the chords. Phil keeps up, impressive melodies igniting at each note he presses. Dan realises it feels good, to be playing aside someone, the only proof they're there the music they play and the shape in his peripheral vision. When it ends, Phil celebrates again.

"I swear I've heard that before," Dan says. His voice is shaped with a smile that he can't seem to get away from; the feeling after learning and succeeding in another piece has left him happy.

"Probably," Phil nods, "It's called Heart and Soul."

"'Cause that means a lot."

"Hey! It might do."

"But it didn't," he continues.

"Shut up, you. We have about seven minutes left, let's look at River again."

"Pedantic, aren't we?"

"Just play the darn piece, Dan."

Dan laughs to himself before falling back into the playing. Phil stays at his shoulder, turning the pages and pointing out little faults.

"I'll bring a new piece next week," Phil announces as they leave the room - together this time.

"Really?" Dan says, excitement in his voice.

"Yeah. I've got something in mind, it should be fine."

"Cool."

Phil nods once before leaving.

Dan enters the classroom, mind buzzing. The events of the past twenty minutes play as repeatedly as the tunes that twitch at his fingers. The class is full, conversations stacking up, but he pays no attention. In one corner, PJ is doodling on an old exercise book, stolen from the draw behind the three of them in Year Nine maths; in the other, the teacher is talking to someone Dan's too stunned to identify, his lanyard swinging as he nods. He settles at his desk wordlessly, and Chris turns to him with a raised eyebrow. There's no sign of the frustration, or emotion of any kind, that he was expecting.

"What? What is it? What happened?" Chris asks, watching Dan as he stares blankly at the wall ahead.

"I don't know," Dan's face crumples into a frown, words baffled. "I - don't know…"

"Wait, wait, wait, run this through me again," Chris says, gesturing with his hand as he watches Dan. They're in the park, and Chris' movement makes the swing he's hooked himself round sway. PJ and Dan are cross legged on the grass beside him, the fingers of shade from the trees just reaching them. The wind kicks through the unkempt ground every so often, and Dan pulls the hair out of his eyes before exhaling slowly, eyes travelling round the park. It's empty, the last family having left half an hour or so previous, when the sun started threatening to dip below the horizon. There were two men and three children, two of which were challenging each other for the rights to the top of the climbing frame like it was a crown. It probably was. Dan had stared for a little too long trying to make out what the lump on one of the men's chests was, smiling when he made out a baby clutched to his body. He promptly looked away when he looked up. He nodded to them when they passed him to leave, without any real reason.

"Phil wasn't a twat to me. He was in the room when I was practising, and he showed me another song to play. Afterwards he helped me with my current piece. He kept smiling, Chris, he was being _nice_."

"So he didn't make any sarcastic comments at all? Did he mention his previous behaviour?" PJ asks, looking as confused as Dan feels.

"Nope, nothing at all. He was practically a different person."

Chris narrows his eyes, and turns to PJ. "Are you sure you didn't cast some kind of spell on him?" he jabs his head at Dan. PJ rolls his eyes.

"No, I didn't sell his soul to the devil, Chris."

"I should hope so, too," Dan adds.

"Maybe it was because he saw you could play?" PJ returns to the topic at hand.

"Yeah, but why would you form an opinion on someone on how they can play piano?" Dan responds.

"I don't know, but maybe Phil would."

"Are you suggesting, Peej, that Dan's playing entranced Phil to fall in love with him?"

"You asked me if I cast a spell on him, you can barely talk," he retorts. "I'm just saying, after all it seemed to be Dan's playing that did something."

"Maybe he discovered there was some point in teaching me. I don't know, guys," Dan says despondently. The conversation dries as the possible explanations run out.

"It would seem we have an odd one on our hands," Chris says after a few silent moments of pondering and picking at grass. "I could always do some-"

"No!"

"Definitely not," Dan and PJ object.

"Can't say I didn't try," Chris feigns a sulk.

"Chris, it would be more useful if you - can you please stop kicking me?" PJ is cut short by Chris tapping his foot against PJ's shoulder for the tenth time.

"What do I do?" Dan asks over their petty arguing. "Oi! Lovebirds! What should I do?"

"Stop insulting us, first of all," Chris sniffs.

"Just go with it, Dan," PJ advises. "Do you know what he's got planned?"

Dan nods. "He said he'd bring a new piece next week."

"Just stick with it, then. See what the new piece is."

"Definitely stay," Chris pipes up. "I want to find out how good he is at playing that violin he brings along."

"Well of course you'd say that."

"And what's that meant to mean?"

Dan and PJ start to laugh, and soon enough the conversation is forgotten, the question left crumpled in the bottom of Dan's school bag.

"How did the lesson go?" is the first thing Dan's mum asks him when he walks into the house.

"I really hope you weren't standing there for half an hour waiting to pounce on me," responds Dan as he toes off his shoes, leaning on the stair rail to do so.

"Nah," she says, "Just twenty minutes."

"Right," Dan says.

"So, how did it go?"

"Okay, yeah. I finally managed to get that piece right. Getting a new one next week."

"Great! How's the teacher?"

"I haven't really formed an opinion yet," Dan shrugs, avoiding the question in the only way he can see fit. "He was a bit off to start with, but I think it's getting better, yeah."

"Is he helping you?"

Dan shrugs again, rushing up the stairs as quick as he can without looking suspicious.

At the moment, everything seems to be one big shrug.

Dan's sat on his bed, laptop open in front of him and homework left on the floor beside him, equations staring up at him. He can smell some kind of barbeque despite the fact it's still _April _and the moisture that hangs in the air is as common a visitor as the stars. He should be solving the problems - even without the threat of detention, Chris will be asking for the answers on Monday - but the only thing his mind can focus on appears to be is how he has no fucking clue what Phil is doing. His thoughts go round in circles and his music playlist is on its second repeat but he hasn't bothered to change it. People have always been a point of interest and confusion for him, apparently, and Phil is no different. Amongst thinking about how pissed off at him he is, what made him change his mind and whether he'll mess up this new piece and what will happen _then_, Dan finds himself wondering what he's going to say next lesson. Somehow "Why the fuck are you being nice to me?" doesn't quite cut it.

It's been like this for all day.

Having nothing else to do, he slopes off to his keyboard. He just sits there, fingers running randomly over the keys.

There's a soft wrap at the door, and Dan grunts in response. His mum enters, hovering by the door.

"Can I come in?"

"Yeah," Dan sighs. She perches on his bed, studying him as he continues to robotically press on the notes.

"Play something for me?" she asks sweetly.

"What?" Dan's taken aback.

"Play your piece. I'd like to see what my son's been up to. Please?"

He doesn't exactly have anything else to do.

"Okay," he agrees. "It may be a bit crap, though," he warns, setting the piece on the stand.

She shrugs. "I won't know any difference."

Dan hums in agreement. "Now?"

"Whenever you're ready."

"That's now, then," he says, and plays. Maybe it's his frustration that makes the beginning stiff, and he winces at each wrong note. He can remember PJ telling him to carry on even if he goes wrong, so he does, calming himself enough to play the rest okay. When he turns back round, his mum's smiling.

"That was very good," she comments, standing and hugging him from behind.

"Ew, get off me," Dan teases, and she tuts.

"Okay, okay," she surrenders. "See you later, then." The door swings shut, and Dan's left with the keyboard again.

He finds himself playing 'River Flows In You' over and over again.

Thursday rolls back round. Dan's week has been quite empty without the dread for the lessons and the practising. He's been in his room and though he used to be happy with just sitting there, now he wants to get up and do something. He plays the Yiruma and 'Heart and Soul' through sometimes, and he focuses on the piano parts of the music he listens to, wondering if he could play it, one day.

He turns up early again. Partly because the sooner his questions are soothed the better, partly because the three of them have been quietly waiting on tender hooks for the lunch to roll round. It has been driving Dan round the bend, slightly.

To his surprise, Phil's already there, tinkering on the piano. He knocks on the door, and Phil greets him with a smile. He's wearing his glasses with the thick frames, and they lift on his cheeks as his face scrunches up in an enamoring grin.

"Didn't scare you off then," he says, returning to the seat beside the piano again.

"Not quite," Dan mutters. He finds himself watching Phil closely, how he smiles at him and doesn't pull out a book, and he has no clue why he's started acting like they're best buddies.

Dan's started to think it's all one big wind up.

"So," he places his hands on his knees, "What's this new piece?"

"I don't know if it's okay…" Phil says as he rummages in his bag, pulling out the new stack of paper and putting it on the stand, and it seems like he's trying to hide the title until the last possible moment.

"Starlight, by Muse? Are you kidding?" Dan exclaims, looking across at Phil.

"What? Is that bad?" Phil bites his lip.

"Bad? Dude, this is like the best possible piece for you to choose!" Dan enthuses, eyes indecisive on whether to settle on Phil or the music.

"Yeah?" Phil perks up again. "So you like Muse?"

"Love them," Dan confirms.

Phil tilts his head. "You have a good music taste, too."

"One of my many pros."

Phil laughs, and starts to spread out the sheets, leaning over Dan to do so. From what Dan sees in the first few seconds, it's the piano part with the voice over the top. It starts with the steady bass before the melody, corresponding with the voice for a while before going into the part that sits underneath in harmony, the part Dan has heard many times before.

"It's quite complicated, in places," Phil explains. "But you can do it."

"Sure about that?"

"Of course," Phil says eagerly.

"Of course," Dan echoes hollowly. He can hear Phil sigh beside him.

"Look, Dan, I'm sorry, I-"

"You confuse me, you know?" He's interrupted Phil, but it seems they both understand that Dan should speak. He doesn't know what he's going to say but apparently some part of him does, because he keeps going. "You act all horrible to me, all sarcastic and clever. You laugh at me and push me around. And suddenly you're acting like I'm your best friend. It doesn't make sense."

"I know. I'm not really going to be able to offer a great explanation, but I can try. With me, it tends to be hate everyone until given a reason otherwise. And for me, hating someone is being sarcastic and such. Tells you a lot about me. And you didn't seem to care about playing and learning? Which is understandable, but given I already 'hated' you, it was annoying. But then I find out that you've tried. And, God, this is going to make me sound so lame, but hearing you play the piece was my reason otherwise? And it wasn't that I decided to be your best friend, it was that I decided to be kind to you and help. It just so happened that we just...clicked. It doesn't really make sense; I confuse myself…" he hesitates, finger tapping on his knee. Dan hasn't looked up yet. "I know it-"

Dan tries to be angry at Phil. He has every right to. Everything has moved fast but it kind of makes sense, so-

"No, it's okay. I understand," Dan finally looks up. "Well, I mean, I don't, but you don't either. And I understand as much as you do." He smiles at Phil, properly smiles, and Phil smiles back. The past few minutes have evidently helped out the both of them.

"So that's why that's happened, and can we pretend it didn't? I totally get it if not but…"

"Of course."

"Great," Phil says after a short pause. "Let's get started, then."

Dan takes another look at the music. Phil talks him through properly on what to look at first, pushing his glasses up his nose every so often.

"Lots of sharps," Dan whistles when Phil points him towards the key signature. Phil laughs.

"Indeed."

The music builds as it goes - that much Dan can tell even though they only focus on the first page. It starts with quavers, before the instrumental comes in, followed by the voice, and so on. The notes move together in octaves alongside the steady bass hand. Phil suggests seeing where the notes line up to help him play, so he does. Phil plays each bar for him after he's figured it out, and then Dan will play it through until he can roughly do it. It goes along like that for the first two pages, and Phil prompts Dan to put everything together. Dan trips and struggles but all Phil does is giggle and tease him lightly, using words like 'Idiot' in - what Dan hopes is - an affectionate way. He guides Dan's hands the first time Dan plays each bar. Dan thinks he'd be doing a better job if he wasn't busy thinking about how Phil had just been kind, and yet they clicked, and how everything has changed in an odd way (and how warm his ears are starting to feel). Down to music, like the music he's now attempting to master, apparently.

"Can I hear your violin playing?" Dan asks after the third time of playing through. The clock says the lesson is nearing it's end, and Dan is just enjoying this new found freedom that means he can ask whatever he likes. He can see the instrument beside Phil, not as protected by his body as it usually is.

"No," Phil says.

"You're enjoying this power thing a little too much, you know," Dan says, his factual tone making Phil laugh.

"I'm saying no because you need to practise. That's what we're here for. And anyway, it's not exactly the best playing in the world."

"How long have you been playing?"

"Since I was four?"

"There we go, then," Dan concludes, shooting Phil a triumphant look. Phil rolls his eyes.

"Just play the piece, you loser."

Dan laughs quietly, doing as he's told.

"So if you practise those two pages this week," Phil says as they both stand. He puts the sheets together, waiting for Dan to get his bag before handing them to him. Dan then waits while Phil gathers up his bag, violin case clutched in one hand.

"Will I get to hear you play if I manage it?" Dan asks slyly.

"No," Phil shakes his head, lips curling. "But one day, I promise. I remember seeing that there's a violin part for it, actually," he muses, pointing to the music in Dan's hand.

"C'mon, please?" Dan begs.

"I dunno…"

"But it's relevant!" Dan persists. "And I really want to hear you play."

"Not next week. But sometime soon, when you can play it all."

"Fine." They walk out and into the corridor as it starts to fill with students.

"Thanks," Dan says as they part ways.

"No problem. See you next week?"

"See you next week," Dan confirms, and they smile at each other again before departing. For the first time, Dan actually believes himself when he says he'll return, and the promise doesn't daunt him.


	5. Chapter 5

Dan feeds back the events of the lesson to Chris and PJ on the way back from school. His excitement for the new piece is still spinning through his head. They frown slightly and look unconvinced, and Dan's about to say more when PJ speaks.

"You're happy with it?"

"Yeah. Phil's a nice guy, it turns out," he explains.

"Then I'm happy," PJ smiles warmly. Dan reciprocates it in thanks, and looks at Chris.

"Of course I'm fine with it!" he assures them. "The whole thing's a bit of a plot twist, is all," he adds, rubbing his temples.

"I know what you mean," Dan nods, "But it's okay."

They walk further in a comfortable silence. Above, the pure white clouds filter into the pearly blue, a light breeze keeping the air on its toes. The network of streets in the neighbourhood are far enough away from the sound of traffic to be an occasional, drowsy rumble; Dan can even hear some classical music floating from a house a few metres away. A cat rubs along Dan's leg, swiftly scarpering away when Chris leans down.

"You're such an animal repellent," PJ laughs, looking intently at Chris.

"And a good joke repellent," Dan adds with a snigger. Chris shoots him an unimpressed look.

"Look, just because you were born without my impeccable sense of humour," Chris retorts. They come to a stop beside the small path that leads to Dan's door. The flower pots are still empty from the winter - though Dan believes his mother is putting gardening off - with a few snowbells drooping into the growing grass.

"His ambitious vocabulary is making a reappearance," Dan says to PJ, fake concern dripping from his words.

"He only does that when he's trying to convince us," PJ replies, smirking.

"Vagabonds," Chris says.

"He should use it in love notes, that way you could never say no!" Dan jokes, PJ giggling as Chris rolls his eyes.

"Imbeciles. Is that an ambitious enough insult for you?" he says, annoyed, but a smile deceives him.

"Nah. I'll be sure to buy you a thesaurus for Christmas."

"Can't wait."

"Well, I'd better be going," Dan announces. "I suppose I should start practising that piece, too," he waves them goodbye before they part ways, PJ calling a 'good luck' over his shoulder.

The tune of 'Starlight' sung in the sounds of piano and speakers fills his room for days.

A few weeks pass, and Dan's convinced it's been too many. They still haven't worked through the whole piece, and each new segment takes two weeks, at least, before they move on; even then he can't play them perfectly. It starts to irritate him, his practices filled with so many repeats, late into the night, that his mother periodically walks into his room and ask him to stop, to play something else to calm his anger or take a break.

He does what she suggests.

The keyboard is off for an average of twenty minutes before it fills the house.

It's like an addiction, Dan thinks as he makes his way back to the stool. The music igniting under his fingertips is a thrill and it's a drug and who would want it to stop?

Maybe that's why his incompetence bugs him so.

"You're doing fine," consoles Phil when Dan speaks his mind. "Great, in fact. You're practically a beginner, remember."

"Perhaps, but it's still taking ages," Dan objects.

"You can only do your best, Dan. And you _are_; the parts you play are calm and focused. You'll be fine," he finishes, cutting Dan off sternly.

Whenever Dan mucks up, he quietly asks Phil to play it again, to remind him. Dan scoots up the stool so they are shoulder to shoulder, mind drifting as Phil plays the piece. When his hands have to travel further down the keys, Dan will lean back - the first time, he hadn't realised, their bodies colliding innocuously - and they'd both laughed over the chorus.

The weeks also pose as bonding sessions, in a way. The first few weeks are soon distant, unrelated. Dan continues to turn up early, and it's soon evident that they are both happy for the lessons to go on an extra ten minutes. Those extra minutes commonly end up being dedicated to chat about music and films and Phil enthusing about new composers, which is fine by them. The forty minutes are the only time they have, and, Dan realises, walking away one time after a talk about the latest Harry Potter film, those minutes a week have led to them being friends.

It's the only explanation.

Phil's laugh is contagious and his playing is soothing and his puns are ridiculous. And it must be friendship, because he laughs with Dan and plays for Dan and makes puns to annoy Dan. He starts talking excitedly about new music he's found, classical and otherwise. Dan will watch and try to imagine the sounds Phil is recounting, but all he can really see is how Phil's not holding back as he speaks. He starts to notice how many times Phil plays with his fringe (nineteen, on average) and how many times he pushes his glasses up his nose (ten). Forty minutes to learn a person, Dan thinks, to take in their strengths and flaws and history, is not enough.

"I'd like to hear you play these pieces, you know," Dan says one time. "Instead of just hearing you talk about them."

"Sorry," Phil says sheepishly.

"No, it's not that," Dan assures him. "I love hearing you talk about it, but I think it would be interesting for me to hear you play."

"I don't know about hearing me play them," Phil ponders. "I'm not all that great at them. But I can show them to you next week."

Dan looks at him incredulously. "Really?"

"Yeah! I'd like you to hear them, too."

"So I'm persuasive, huh," Dan says. "Will you play violin for me?" he tries.

"With what?" Phil gestures around him at the otherwise empty room.

Dan shoots him a pointed look.

"Soon. When you can play this, maybe? I could join in with the violin part?" he offers.

"Okay," Dan brightens, "Sounds good to me."

"Awesome."

In between lessons, the days are the same - boring mirror copies. Chris will get abashed by PJ and Dan wonders how PJ hasn't noticed something by now. Dan will laugh, because it's slightly pathetic if heartwarming, and he's free to: he isn't in this situation.

It becomes a toss up between homework and music, and though Dan and Phil joke that clearly piano is more important, they both know they're fooling themselves, even if they wish they weren't.

Phil brings the music to Dan, as promised, in the shape of a CD.

"Here's the first one," Phil says as he presses the disk into Dan's palm.

"It's not the nineteen eighties, Phil," Dan teases, flipping the disk between his fingers. It's a starlight grey, a glistening crystal ball backshadowing text that reads 'Lindsey Stirling'. The back has a formation of tracks which one wouldn't expect to label violin music. Fingerprints litter the plastic casing.

"It's authentic," Phil defends himself. "What's the problem, do you not have a CD player?" he asks smugly.

"Of course," Dan scoffs. He does, somewhere.

"Won't be a problem, then. I know it's not me playing, but you can imagine," he adds.

"Yeah, I'll just imagine them being played worse."

"Shut up!"

He listens to it late at night, where there's enough time and his mind is in that calm, open mood. He spreads out over the bed, eyes shut.

The music is piercing but elegant, notes tumbling into each other with purpose. It's piercing and steady, collapsing from crescendos and jumping octaves. It's enthralling and enchanting.

(It makes Dan think of Phil a little differently. He can picture a tall violinist with the night for hair, and an ironed shirt and deft hands and every other banality which comes to him.

Something clicks.)

Two nights of violin music later, and the canteen is kept alive with the promise of the weekend and the chips which take up the menu every Friday. The weather has turned, the sky the colour of dust, mottled with smoking clouds. A draught whistles past them every time the door is swung open and left to slam shut. They're round one table for four. (Phil's in the other corner).

"How're the lessons going?" Chris asks absently, fork digging around in his damp pot of pasta.

"Good," Dan replies just as casually, swinging himself round as his legs rest on the spare seat next to him - PJ and Chris are practically pressed against each other like dolls on the other side of the table (and now he's facing Phil better - but his focus is utterly and completely on his homework).

"How's Phil?"

"Good." Dan's eyes have flickered over to Phil, who's head is bent contently over another novel. Dan's lips are now subconsciously pressed up in a smile.

"Aw, is Dan in love?" Chris teases.

"What?" Dan's eyes shoot back to Chris again. "Why would you say that?"

"Because you've gone all smiley and," Chris strikes a pose, "in love," he mock-sighs.

"Don't be stupid, Chris," Dan scoffs, feeling himself flush.

There's a small pause, and then Chris' eyes widen. "You _do_ like him, don't you?"

"No!" he persists, voice stuttering and rendered useless by shock.

Chris continues, smile widening. "Don't be stupid. You _do_, don't you?"

It takes one glance back across.

"I..guess?"

"Take some advice from me, kid," Chris pats him on the back. "You do."

"Okay," Dan agrees quietly, composing himself and blinking at his homework.

A few minutes pass, and maybe Chris and PJ are muttering, maybe they aren't.

"Dan," PJ begins cautiously. "You know Phil…"

"Of course I do," Dan rolls his eyes before they settle back at the far corner of the canteen.

"He has a girlfriend…"

Dan's eyes fall down to the table in front of Phil, where his spare hand is intertwined with that of a brunette with golden eyes and freckles - Laura.

His cheeks are a dangerous red and his stomach has begun its descent, mouth clamped shut and his eyes are now _most definitely_ focused on his homework.

When Phil makes a pun Dan's arm flies up to playfully shove him, before Phil catches Dan's hand with his own to stop him. Dan's ears flood red, and they probably did previously, when this happened before, but now Dan is horridly conscious of it. He notices how Phil's eyes smile with his lips and how his blazer sits on his shoulders and how his own stomach flips, and they were all like that previous but now Dan is horridly conscious of it.

"Did you enjoy it?" Phil greets him, another disk having been lent to Dan the week previous.

"I loved it," Dan assures him.

A smile breaks over Phil's face - and it's a bit like the poem about the stars they read in Year Four Literacy.

"I'm so glad. Shall we try this, then? You're getting really good, lately."

Dan notices the smell Phil carries into the room - vanilla, mostly. Sometimes lemongrass. His features are like sleep; everything is smudged like a charcoal sketch, and calming, like the ripples in lakes at the beginning of a rainstorm. His voice is filled with the notes of raconteurs. He notices the air Phil brings into the room, like everything is a fairytale and washed with warmth - though that's probably just Dan.

It's beginning to drive Dan mad.

Chris texts him at forty-seven past midnight, saying how doomed Dan is because musicians are always the most attractive. They have an edge above everyone else, Chris says. He doesn't know why. But it's always the painters and the pianists.

Dan doesn't reply, but he agrees - _fuck Phil and his fucking music_. He then returns to 'Starlight', because he's nearly got it, can nearly place every correct note in its home.

If only he didn't have any distractions.

It's been three weeks since - well, Phil. Dan's eyes have shot daggers at Phil and Laura too many times, and everywhere he turns there's some bitter reminder. Phil's lent him three disks and each has made Dan like him a little more, and it's filled his head with whimsical emotions and driven his consciousness even further into the night. Gemini has been burned into his optic nerves.

"How's the piece going?" Phil asks.

"Good, yeah," Dan nods. His hands are firmly set on his lap. "I think it's nearly there."

They go through it, picking troublesome bars and chatting in between.

Phil's laugh is bubbling and pulls at strings that cause this aching pain. It's past longing and gone into frustration. Dan's starting to feel tense and annoyed and trapped.

Phil giggles again, and Dan finds himself watching and grinning.

_He has a girlfriend._

"Shall we try it, then?"

"Sure," Dan winces at the stiffness of his voice.

He plays it. He plays it, but his fingers dig into each key, and the music practically implodes at a volume that bounces off the walls. He drives forwards though, no note out of place but his mind completely separate from it as his head swings back and forth between clefs. His lips are pressed in a tight line not dissimilar to the strokes of the manuscript, and there's a recurrent thwump as his foot lifts up and collapses back onto the pedal. Body jolting slightly in time, he lets the notes pile and crush against each other before lifting the pedal mercifully.

They let it fade completely, and then wait longer, before speaking. Outside, it's started to rain. From the sheet of matte grey fall harsh droplets that drill into the window, a nearby tree failing in the wind. The pads of Dan's fingers ache.

"Wow," Phil says, impressed. His voice topples on the boundary of a whisper. "It would appear the piano knows something I don't."

Dan would roll his eyes, but he's too fixed on stopping his eyes trailing away from the piano.

"What made you play like that?" Phil presses gently.

"I just, like it a lot?" Dan excuses himself weakly. He looks up at Phil, their wide eyes locking.

It proves to provide some vindication, because Phil nods.

"It does light up your day." He smirks.

"Stop," Dan moans, face pressed against his palms.

"It is out of this world," he continues.

"Show mercy," Dan begs, peeping out between his fingers. "Only a loser laughs at his own jokes, you know," he informs as Phil settles into airy giggles.

"Explains a lot," Phil composes himself.

"Yeah, and now I have to cope with you as a teacher."

"Hey! I taught you, didn't I? I mean, let's face it, I needed someone to teach for DofE, and you weren't exactly a dream come true."

"I guess…" Dan says shrewdly, unwilling to give in. "But I can play now, right?"

"Yes. With help from _me_," Phil argues childishly.

"Are you sure? Are you sure about that, Phil?" Dan patronizes, face biting back a wide grin.

"Very sure. In fact, I think we can do that duet now?"

"Really?" Dan's sitting up straight in an instant.

"Do I win?"

"No! But can we?" Phil hums in confirmation, rummaging through his bag and unzipping the violin case with the other.

"You brought your stuff…?" The statement ends as a question.

"I thought you'd be ready today," Phil explains. "And I was right!" he adds brightly.

The mild compliment makes his infatuated heart swell.

The piece he puts on top the old has a violin part floating over the piano. Dan casts it a wayward glance before watching Phil pull out his violin.

The instrument is aged, wood polished but scarred. Phil's fingers settle around it like second nature, and he stands with a new grace as he settles it on his shoulder. The room is only a few paces in width, so now that Phil is standing in the centre of it, his strong figure fills it.

"Ready?" His face goes funny as he speaks over the instrument that presses into his chin.

"Absolutely," Dan speaks through chortles.

It's not amazing. It's not a groundbreaking piece. It's the song, with strings added. But it's also great. He's playing alongside someone else, and his playing is held up by Phil's own. It has a backbone. The two rivers of notes twirl together and Dan's apprehension is lost for a while, grin overbearing and mind dancing. The violin is kind to the ears and adds timbre to it - interest. It's over too soon. And it's great to finally hear Phil play - and God, is he good at it - but Dan's back is facing Phil. All he's got is the sound.

"Well done!" Phil says once they're finished.

"Well done _you_, more like. You were bloody amazing!" Dan corrects. Phil's face floods with elation.

"Thanks." He crouches down and starts to pack the violin away. Dan watches, biting his lip.

"Wait," he stops Phil. "Can you play something else? For me?"

"I don't know, I-" Phil stammers, holding onto the back of his neck. He's back to standing again, and Dan looks up at him as he pleads.

"Please? I didn't get to watch you play, and it would be so much better without all my mistakes. Please."

"Okay," Phil sighs. He lifts the instrument before letting it swing down again, "You really want to watch me play?"

"Of course I do!"

"Okay," Phil's lips curl up. His nails wrap against the wood as he thinks, and then he grins.

"I've got one."

"If music be the food of love, play on," Dan urges.

"Nerd," Phil mutters, stretching his fingers before placing them on the neck of the violin.

He looks back at Dan for confirmation, and Dan nods excitedly. A string of numbers leave Phil's mouth and then he's playing. It's a steady bass line, and Dan's face breaks into a smile as he recognises the tune: 'Secrets' by OneRepublic. Phil spots his smile and matches it. He moves with the music, the bow moving gracefully through the air like it's running through melted chocolate. The sound is rich and rounded like the chocolate it moves through, Phil's fingers deftly moving amongst the strings as he alternates between instrumental and voice and pizzicato and legato. His lips move slightly, the lyrics numb on his tongue, and Dan finds that he's singing along silently, too.

Dan can't get over it. He's seen violinists before, in music videos and on TV. But this is different. This is Phil, back taut and face focused and music curling out from his fingers. The violin's song is high pitched, clarion, but far from shrill and piercing. How one line of song, one thin texture, can be so interesting, Dan will never know.

"That's the end - er, yeah," Phil says when he's finished, pulling away from the instrument.

"It was great," Dan says. "You're a fantastic player."

"Yeah?" Phil cracks a wide toothed grin.

Dan smiles slowly. "Yeah."

Dan's trapped. He's on his bed and he's moved round his room at least three times, but he may as well be tied to the spot. The four spacious walls of his room are clamping down on his brain, his thoughts as stagnated as his ragged breathing. His eyes glaze over with stupor, straying from the screen every few seconds. His muscles are tense. His mind is detached from his body, almost. He's managed to dig valleys into his sheets.

He needs to get out.

It would be better, he thinks, if he could get out of his mind, but he can't, so outside will do. He moves in a calm haste - he's not panicking - as he works his way to the door. Mechanically collecting his coat and closing his laptop and door, he thunders down the stairs. The lounge door is open.

"Going for a walk," he mutters briskly, before swinging the door shut behind him. His mother's questions die on her lips.

The soul of the storm wafts in the air like fairy dust. The pebbles of the path slip and crackle under his purposeful footsteps, before his steps fade into the soft pad of shoes on concrete. The light from the streetlamps land on his body as he passes, blotching like bruises on the fabric. Everything's suddenly calm and clear.

It's like his thoughts have been released, in a way. Like the fences clamping him in have been yanked away, the cold, still air letting him wrestle with his thoughts - the thoughts which are now clambering over each other. One thing is certain:

It hurts.

_Fuck_, it hurts, and Dan doesn't know why that wasn't a constant thought earlier. But there's something about the night: it's when people speak without thinking, without worrying about real life and jobs and taxes as stories are told over firelight - granted, those qualities do mean he's hurting. Troubled with how tempting Phil is, how he makes everything look tangible when it's really out of reach. But Dan is glad he's outside, the air painting his cheeks rose and whipping through his lungs, rather than inside. He's walking the built-up anger off, fists slowly unclenching as he goes.

Perhaps it's not a surprise when he ends up at the park. He trusts his feet to follow the paths they've been programmed to, allowing his mind to wander. He's taken walks round the block before - and his thoughts must have been engulfing him, because he had kept going instead of turning and going back home. So now he's confronted with the silhouette of the rocking horse and the shine of the metal gate in the moonlight.

He looks about him several times, thinking it may be a good idea to hurry home. But the only figures are the shadows of the play equipment, the line of trees surrounding them creating the sense that, at this moment, the rest of the world is very, very far away.

He steps forward, swinging the gate open and looking round him once more. His steps are slower, now, as he leaves the tarmac and steps onto the grass. He watches his feet as they leave imprints in the damp blades, moving like he's trying not to leave footprints in butter. Dan's about to laugh at himself for being so careful, when he spots something - some_one_ - on the swing set he's aiming towards. The shadow doesn't give much away, but Dan is very certain that they are looking at him, and he can't turn away. He takes a few more steps forward, heart pounding against his teeth, when there's a voice.

"Dan?" There's a sense of familiarity, but it disappears as soon as it's recognised. At that moment, a car passes by, it's headlight sweeping across a face. Dan frowns in surprise as he takes their face in: perky nose, cornflower eyes and golden waves of hair caught back by bobby pins.

"Evanna?"

"Dan! Hi!" she welcomes, smiling warmly. "Please, sit down."

He gladly takes a seat on the swing next to her, watching her as steadily as she watches him.

"I haven't talked to you in ages," he begins. He sees her around school, sometimes, catching sight of the ribbons tied round her wrists and hair. "How have you been?"

"Good, you?"

"Alright, yeah."

"So what brings you here?"

"How d'you mean?" His face furrows.

"Everyone has a reason for coming to a park at," she flicks her wrist to regard her watch, "eleven twenty-seven in the evening."

"Oh, I, uh-"

"Lost in your thoughts?" she answers for him.

"Yeah," his reply is almost a sigh as his eyes find their way to his lap. She makes a noise of understanding before they fade into silence. She sits with her fingers wrapped around the chain, legs bending but not leaving the ground as she swings; Dan's hands are twisted in his lap, feet scuffing the floor.

Saying his thoughts are free is an overstatement. He's stuck in circles of Phil, going from how his laugh is like a harp as it fills his head, to the butterflies that rattle in Dan's stomach, to the dilemma of the triangle Dan's found himself in; the butterflies are stabbed in their masses. The circle goes round and round, but at least his mind is moving now, and not the stiff machine it was prior.

"Care to speak your mind? It may help you find your way," Evanna asks, wisps of hair flying from her face as she flicks her head to face him.

Dan nods, then clears his throat, "Okay,"; he realises she may not be able to see him nod. He can just make out her lips, muted peach, smiling. "What would you do if you liked someone, and they were your friend - a close friend - and they had someone else. If you want to stay their friend but when you're around them it hurts. If it hurts to stay with them and it hurts to desert them. What would you do?" His voice feels jagged in the night. He speaks easily but it's different hearing it aloud, grasping and understanding the shattered mirror pieces as they fill the air between them.

"I would stick by them. It may turn out that they feel the same way, eventually, or I'd learn to love them the way they love me. Because they do still love you, you've got to remember that," she replies simply, but her voice holds no spite, just comfort.

"That would still cause pain, though - wouldn't it?"

"I know. It won't solve your reason why, but I believe it is the right thing." Dan finally pinpoints what her voice sounds like: a dream. A few moments pass, and a cloud passes over the moon, making the light spilling on the ground dance.

"So what's your reason?"

"Similar to yours."

"You don't know what to do?" he asks, frowning because she just _told _him what to do.

"No, I know. I'm going through with it," her voice is a mother's smile, "It's like I said: it doesn't solve your reason why."

There's nothing to be said, so Dan turns his attention to the blossoms opposite as they return to the silence of their folie à deux.

Dan spots Phil in the corridor. He smiles thinly at him incase the other spots him too, not looking to the left or right of him as he makes to continue. He feels a brush of fingers on his blazer. Dan's eyes flicker over his shoulder automatically. Phil's alone, so Dan stops.

"Hi, you alright?" he asks.

"Yeah. I forgot to give you this, yesterday," he explains, waving a new CD at Dan. The cover displays the ocean, with the text 'Islands' atop of the scene.

"Essential...Einaudi, is that?" Dan reads the case.

"Yup, he's a pianist."

"A pianist? Not your usual violinist, then."

"I thought you may want to play something from it," Phil explains.

"Really? You think I could play this?" (Dan needs to stop feeling so honoured by small things like this).

"Of course, Dan," Phil rolls his eyes. "I have all the music, so just pick something and tell me next lesson."

"Okay, cool," Dan smiles, "Thank you!"

"No problem. See you, then," and Phil disappears again.

The pieces are all different, but they all carry the same characteristic. It's quarter past midnight, and Dan can't quite place it. All he can identify are the common arpeggios, splashes of notes and rocking scales. The CD spins fast, changing the song.

They all sound like a dream.

And it makes sense, he discovers as he searches the definitions of the track names on Google, what with titles which translate to 'The Waves' and 'The Days' and the name of the goddess of fairies. The songs go through 'Nightbook' and 'Primavera', and Dan falls asleep at 'Fairytale'.

He wakes to notes sketching out 'White Clouds'.

"What did you choose, then?" Phil asks eagerly as Dan passes him the CD a week later.

"Primavera," Dan points to one of the songs.

"And is it a coincidence that it's one of the ones with a violin part?" Phil asks slyly.

"Perhaps," Dan replies with an impish smile. Phil rolls his eyes and flicks through the collection of sheet music for 'Islands'.

"Let's give it a shot, then."

Dan finds a sheet of paper on the piano the next lesson, its corner falling off the edge.

"What's this?" he asks, though he can read it full well as he picks it up with his finger and thumb over the white border. The paper is a leaflet, with bright colours and graphics and text.

"Talent show the school does. I know it's not a momentous occasion, but I'm teaching you for DofE and I thought we could show you off. You're doing well with Primavera, and I think we could use that."

"Right…" Dan says. "Ignoring the part about you making me sound like dog - or worse - you actually want to do this?"

"Yes, I do. Do you?"

Dan sucks in his cheeks as he scans over the information again, thoughts ticking over in his brain. He places the sheet back on the piano.

"Okay. Let's do this."


	6. Chapter 6

It takes two weeks for Dan and Phil to realise how pushed for time they are. It takes two weeks for them to stop chatting, and to, instead, practise non-stop for the majority of the lesson, Phil playing the parts for Dan and Dan getting caught up in the tune which streams out from the violinist's fingers before trying to play it himself. Sometimes, he remains in a daze, enraptured by Phil's movements and Phil in general, and Phil will nudge him, and look at him with those eyes the colour of a bottle filled with churning poison; he's beautiful, and Dan's found him thinking that several times. It's scary. It's like he's looking right through to Dan's soul, occasionally, and Dan doesn't know what he can see. He doesn't want to know, either, and he doesn't want Phil to figure out why he's in a stupor half the time.

Phil doesn't figure it out; he remains none the wiser, and Dan's left hiding his flush as Phil guides his hands.

It takes four weeks before Phil sees it fit to bring his violin in to play aside Dan, and even then the piece moves forward in squeaky jolts. At one point Dan offers to help Phil with his violin, arguing that Phil's been helping him during their practise time, so he should get time for his part, too. When Phil can play his piece well - he goes away one week and comes back with each note polished, and Dan's tempted to ask how much of his free time was lost to non-stop practise - Dan listens to each section and together they create an order to it. The violin is written for several violinists, Phil tells him - an orchestra, in fact - so they need to decide on a structure, where each part makes sense on its own and builds the ambiance.

"It should help achieve some sort of impact," Phil muses, drawing away from the scrawls of blunt pencil on a piece of scrap paper. The scrambling words on canvas have a lot resting on them. They stare at it for a while, before Phil folds it along meandering creases and conceals it in his pocket.

"You're a good violinist," Dan comforts him, when it's been three week and both parties are playing strangled notes.

"Try telling that to this thing," Phil replies, nodding at the instrument as he shrugs it off. He's putting it away before Dan can argue against it.

Dan's found himself on many a night time walk, walking through the network of streets and strolling through the park to the swings without needing to pay attention anymore. He's seen the landscape around him change in little tweaks, noticing how the shadow of the leaves is bigger or the grass is longer under his feet. It's become a nightly occurrence, and when asked why he goes out, he just dismisses it as exercise.

The night air hasn't become less helpful. It's as clean as ever, sharp and cool like a string of diamonds around his neck. Sometimes Evanna is there, with daisies weaved through her hair or her wrists laden with delicate bracelets. Their communication can be nonexistent, to whole conversations which don't hold any purpose. When she isn't there, Dan is happy to sit alone - when she is there, she's always there before him.

Dan's mind soon becomes a mutated labyrinth of possibles, because Phil is definitely his favourite what if by now; its what his mind seems to travel to most, lost wandering down the paths of maybes for dragged out minutes - but he only goes into it on these expeditions, so he decides its a good thing. Some of the paths are ornate and tempting, with honey and happiness, and sunlight skittering along the asphalt, and Dan tries to extend his stay as much as possible before he bounces back to reality. Others are refused as soon as their mere outline enters his brain, because he may be fooling himself, but these ones aren't real, won't be real no matter what happens. They aren't - they can't.

(The night does a lot, but it doesn't conceal viable truths, and with no real place to turn, Dan's left with a clenched fist for a heart).

"One of them's going to happen," Dan whispers. He hears himself say it, and before he can ask why, his company breaths a "yeah", circling her pinky round his. When he offers a weak smile, Dan sees how her skin is smooth under the moonlight, and when he turns ahead again, studies how the argent light washes through the wrinkles and cracks of the tree trunks, how it skids off the dew-wet grass blades. A breath snags in his throat. He wonders what Phil would look like under it, in a place which transforms into something that conceals fairy rings and secret lovers.

He stops himself dreaming - again.

"PJ?" asks Dan suddenly and sharply, looking up from the book caught between his hands. Chris and PJ's conversation - the one he's been blocking out for the past ten minutes - stops abruptly. PJ's still looking at Chris, having not turned his body round from where his legs have swung round to the side of the stool. If not for the stark contrast between their jackets, Dan wouldn't be sure where one ended and the other begins.

"Oi, are you listening?" Dan clicks his fingers in front of PJ's face, and PJ blinks in surprise.

"Yeah, yeah."

"I need your help," Dan lies, cutting down on the annoyed tone that had filled his voice seconds previously. "With - um - my piano. So, can you come round after school? Please?"

"I thought you said it was going fine? That's what I heard last time I checked, anyway," PJ frowns.

"Something's come up," Dan explains, smiling and watching him until he shrugs.

"Okay. Yeah, I can."

"Great," Dan says. He nods once, a smile slightly curving his lips, and then returns to reading. Chris and PJ's conversation launches into life again, restored to its former glory of bad jokes and near relentless laughter. Dan rolls his eyes behind the pages, a knowing grin on his lips.

"So what did you need help with?" PJ asks, planting his bag on the bed and walking over to the keyboard, studying the asqew pages.

"Oh, I don't. I just needed to talk to you in private," Dan admits sheepishly. "Without any distractions," he adds pointedly.

"Right," PJ maunders, perching on the stool, hands clasped in his lap as he looks up at Dan.

"It's about Chris," Dan says simply.

"Oh," PJ says, frown ebbing into a slight smile.

"Now, I'm very pleased for you, and honoured that you trusted me enough to tell me, but it's becoming very agitating, seeing you fawning over each other. You're like two deer in mating season, I swear to God," Dan informs him. He watches him carefully, an annoyed sigh breaking his lips when PJ doesn't react to his - genius, he thinks - pun.

"It takes one mention and you're off again. PJ? PJ?"

"Hm?" PJ breaks from his daze.

"You're not even paying attention, are you?"

"No, sorry," he confesses. Dan sighs again, taking the stride to stand next to him and pat him on the shoulder.

"Just ask him out already," he practically pleads.

"What? You think-"

"It is blatantly obvious what he'd say, Peej," Dan cuts him off. "It would take you two seconds out of your own body to see how infatuated you are with each other. Ask him, and put us all out of our misery."

PJ purses his lips; Dan waits patiently through the silence that falls.

"I'll try," PJ eventually concedes. He twists round in the stool to face the keyboard.

"Is that all? Did you need any help with this?" he asks, eyes skimming over the pages as he plays a bar or two.

"Nah, I'm good. And if I'm not, Phil can help me."

"Okay."

PJ stands, reaching over and swinging his bag back over his shoulder. "But if I'm sorting my love life out, you need to sort out yours," he tells Dan, emerald eyes boring into Dan, unwavering.

"But-"

PJ quirks an eyebrow, and Dan sighs. "Fine, whatever. I'll try."

"Cool," PJ grins. "Thanks Dan - see you tomorrow, then."

"See you tomorrow," Dan nods. He follows PJ to the front door, waving before shutting it carefully after him.

"That was quick," a voice shocks Dan from behind, and he relaxes when the voice falls into place as his mothers.

"Yeah, it was just me being dumb," Dan explains, turning round. She nods in understanding, and Dan speed-walks up the stairs, avoiding any more questions.

The last Thursday before the show, Dan nearly jogs to the practise room, music fluttering under his jacket as he protects it from the drizzle that has started to fall halfheartedly from the sky. Though the last few practises had been okay, they both knew it wasn't enough - so Dan was anxious to get there as soon as possible. There were only a certain amount of days a week he could stay up practising, and if they were to get anywhere near successful, they needed to practise together. His breathing is ragged round the edges as he makes long strides down the corridor, but he doesn't get to make his comment about how that's his exercise for the month done: the room is surprisingly empty. Dan shrugs it off, pulling out the music. He spends the few minutes until Phil arrives playing patiently through the bars he still hasn't mastered. He plays each note slowly, paving his way to each position, and he plays it as if he's doing a rough outline for a sketch.

When Phil does enter, his walk is bordering on sluggish, the smile he sends Dan's way not dragging itself up to his eyes. Again, Dan shrugs it off.

"Hey," he welcomes as Phil starts to unpack his violin and music. "You alright?"

"Fine," Phil dismisses quickly.

"We've got less than a week 'til the show," Dan says it partly to continue the drying conversation, and partly to work out why Phil is late at such a vital time.

"No shit," Phil retorts, the cutting tone making Dan flinch. His mouth opens and closes dejectedly as he spins and stares determinedly at the piano.

"Sorry," Phil blurts out, his face softening. "I'm just...stressed. Because of the performance..." His words are weak, but Dan doesn't dig deeper into it.

He smiles in forgiveness, "It's okay, it's not your fault." Phil grins in relief, but his leg is still bouncing, knuckles white on the slim neck of the violin.

"Do you want a hug?" Dan offers, covering it with a jokey tone which coaxes another timid smile from Phil as he nods.

"Alright, Mum," he replies. Rolling his eyes, Dan stands and hugs him, his head just reaching Phil's shoulder as he rests against him.

"Right, mothers meeting over," Dan announces, awkwardly and reluctantly pulling out of the solacing embrace. "Let's kick this piece's arse."

"Please don't," Phil giggles.

"Don't worry, I'm a professional."

"Ugh, stop," Phil scrunches his nose. "Just play, weirdo."

"Gah," Dan exclaims as the music screeches to a stop again. "It's these fucking flats, I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Phil replies, his tone and the position of the clock's hands suggesting otherwise.

"I'll play it through a few times, it should be okay then," Dan rushes to say. He does just that, each time speeding it up until he flows through it at the correct speed. After playing it through once more - just to make sure - he looks up.

"Good to go."

"From the beginning, then?"

Dan glances at the clock before answering, "No, I think we should just go from where I fucked up."

"But we need it to flow," Phil objects urgently.

"I know, but right now we just need to play through the whole damn thing as many times as possible - and going from the beginning is just going to waste time."

Phil hesitates before ducking his head in agreement. "Okay. From the beginning of that bar, then?"

"Perfect," Dan agrees, sparing Phil one last smile as an attempt to comfort him. Phil just starts counting down from four.

Dan's getting by on stolen glances, the jokes they share, and the hurried smiles they exchange in the corridor. As time goes on, everything is amplified with urgency and need and jealousy.

"How's your reason going?" Evanna asks him. Peripherally, Dan can see her twirling a string of glass beads round her fingers. The glass splits the moonlight into geometric tattoos on her skirt.

"Awfully," he mumbles, kicking the ground again.

"You need to figure out why you like them, how they make you feel," she speaks like it's fairy poetry. "If you know the why, you can work out how to sort it out," she smiles. "They say knowledge is power."

The answer doesn't come to him, at first. He doesn't even want to think about it; it would require too much delving into still waters. Then, he records everything mentally, the tumbles and sparks and craving - he understands.

Phil is like his favourite record. Dan drinks on each enthralling melody, lives off the feeling that fills him. The longing is caged under his fingers, bursting like sparks in his veins and his chest and his head; when Phil's around, Dan sings and dances along to the glee the rhythm creates, and when he's not, he starves until he can hear it again. It's a constant in his head. But with his favourite song, even if he can't play it and experience it coming to life under his movements, he can listen to it again and again, until his thirst is quenched. You can't listen to a person.

Time is running out. There's only so much he can take of observing from afar. Evanna told him what to do the night Dan talked to PJ.

Dan's never truly believed in coincidences.

Someone's calling his name. Dan swears he hears a "Dan!" painted in a familiar voice, but he can't hear it due to the clamored conversations that come with the end of the week. Chris is the one who turns first.

"Oh, watch out," he announces, and Dan and PJ turn, so the line of three are squinting into the masses.

"Dan!"

Dan's eyes quickly find Phil, and a grin washes over his face as Phil hastens over to the trio.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" he asks, eyes skimming over PJ and Chris anxiously.

"No, not at all," Dan assures him, the others agreeing. "What's up?"

"Are you able to practise for, like, half an hour? There's a practise room free, and, well, we've got three days 'til the show."

"Sure!" Dan agrees. "I'll see you both Monday, if that's okay?" he turns his head to ask his friends.

"Yeah, that's fine," they reply.

"Great. Let's go, then," Dan says to a relieved Phil.

"Have fun!" Chris calls after them. Dan flips him off behind his back as he walks away.

"You keep getting caught up in it," Phil comments. It's halfway through the extra practise, and Dan has asked Phil for help. "You go fine for a while, and then you trip."

"Yeah. Sorry."

"It's okay. You just need to stop rushing."

"Stop rushing; got it. Again?"

"Of course."

They play from the beginning, both wincing as the two parts fall in and out of sync. As soon as the last note sings, Phil tells them to play again, and again, but each time, the tempo evaporates - no amount of count-ins changes it. And as the number of repeats increases, Dan starts to hear slips in the violin part. He can't see, but he can perfectly imagine Phil's fingers tangling and shaking. When another mistake throbs - a slip in the bow that sets the music squeaking - Dan stops playing.

"Phil, stop. You need to calm down."

"I am calm," Phil insists.

"You really aren't. You're fingers are shaking with nerves, and you're rushing," Dan says gently.

"Sorry."

"It's fine; your part is ten times harder than mine! If anyone's allowed to fuck up, it's you." Dan resists the urge to take Phil's hand as the grin that trickles onto Phil's face contaminates his own.

"You are going to do amazing," Dan continues.

"_We_ are going to do amazing," Phil amends.

"Yes, we are."

"But only if we keep practising," Phil adds, making Dan laugh.

"Alright, alright."

Their playing isn't perfect. It doesn't suddenly transform into a masterpiece, but Dan starts to prevent from rushing, and Phil calms down - the issue is making everything stick together.

Phil's alarm goes off, marking the end of their practise time, but they only hear it once they finish the run through. When he hears it, Phil's face falls as he sinks into his chair, violin limp against his leg.

"We're not ready," he laments, hands pressed to his forehead.

"We're nearly there."

"But we're not ready," Phil repeats, then, almost silently, "What are we going to do?"

Dan bites his lip as he watches Phil.

"Are you free tomorrow and the day after?" he asks tentatively.

"Yes, why?"

"You could come round mine for the night, and we could practise? We'd have much more time - and food."

"Really?" Phil lifts his head. "Are you serious?"

Dan grins. "Why wouldn't I be? We don't have to practise the whole time, either. I can see how good you are at Mario Kart."

"Oh no, I couldn't possibly - I don't want to bother you."

"You won't be. See it as a thank you, for teaching me."

"It'll be like those sleepovers from film musicals," Phil smiles.

"Exactly. So do you wanna come, or not?"

"I'd love to."

They exchange numbers, so they can confirm an address and time. Dan doesn't dare text Phil about anything else, so the next he hears from Phil is that he's on his way. His eyes wash over the room once more, searching for any incriminating mess or old crockery, before he darts down the stairs.

"Is Phil here? I didn't hear the doorbell," his mother calls from her study.

"He's on his way," Dan informs her.

"Okay. Well, the food's in the cooker now, so tea will be in about half an hour."

"And I needed to know that why?" Dan asks, entering the room and leaning against the door frame.

"Just so you wouldn't get too distracted with your music, or whatever you'll be doing up there."

"Not you as well," Dan moans.

"I don't know what you mean," she sings.

"Sure," Dan says. Their conversation is interrupted by the doorbell, and Dan hurriedly opens the door.

"Hi," he breaths, smiling in greeting.

"Hi," Phil replies. His violin is clutched in one hand, the other dug into the pocket of his jeans.

"Come in," Dan steps aside, smiling at Phil again. Dan's mother emerges from her study, grinning at her visitor.

"Hi, Phil."

"Hi. Thanks for having me."

"Not a problem. Is pizza okay for dinner?"

"It's marvellous," he confirms.

"Great!" she chirps. "I'll leave you to it."

The pair watch her go.

"Do you want me to hold that?" Dan offers to Phil, who's trying to get his shoes off while holding his instrument.

"Oh, yes please," Phil says. Dan laughs once at Phil's sheepish grin.

"This way," Dan gestures up the stairs. When he swings open the door to his room, he studies Phil with nervous eyes.

"What?" Phil asks.

"Just. My room is a bit of a tip."

"I hadn't noticed that. Do you have any pigs under your bed?"

"No…"

"Then it's definitely not a mess."

"Okay," Dan beams. "Tea is soon, so shall we fit a few run throughs in?"

"Good idea," Phil takes the violin case from Dan's outstretched hand. They set up, and are about to play when Dan stops them with a "Wait."

He stands, shifting the keyboard so it's perpendicular to the wall. Sitting again, he looks up at a bemused Phil with a triumphant grin.

"Now I can see you, and we can keep in time easier."

"You, my friend, are a genius," Phil says.

"No, that's you."

Phil flushes, rolling his eyes.

The first play rushes through smoothly like wind, and Dan is high on the euphoria induced when the notes fall successfully away under his hands. The last note is left to evanesce, and they share a knowing smile.

"Well, that went well," Dan understates.

"Yes, it was satisfactory." Their gaze holds, and then they burst into shameless laughter.

"We did it!" Phil says, and they celebrate with a messy high five which kicks up their laughter again.

The success travels into the next play, and the musicians perform with smiles imprinted on their faces.

A few minutes later, there's a knock on the door, and Dan's mother puts her head round the door.

"Sorry to interrupt, but the pizza's nearly ready, so it may be a good idea to go down now?"

"Great, thanks, Mum," Dan thanks her, and they stand up and follow her to the kitchen.

"You know where everything is, Dan."

"See this? See how she treats me?" Dan walks to the cupboard and takes two plates from the shelf. She shakes her head, tutting, before leaving them to it, saying - to Dan's relief - that she'll eat later. Phil leans against the counter, hands on the surface behind him. He watches patiently as Dan lays the table. Dan's phone buzzes on the table, and he unlocks it, eyes skimming over the incoming, frantic messages.

_**chris: pj just invited me out to the cinema**_

_**chris: fuckin PJ DAN**_

_**chris: DAN. PJ. DAN.**_

_**chris: what do i WEAR**_

_**chris: YOUD BETTER ANSWER ME RIGHT NOW OR GOD HELP YOU**_

Dan laughs, tapping out a quick reply before returning the phone to his back pocket.

_dan: sorry mate, you're on your own_

"Who was that?" Phil asks. Dan explains the story briefly, with more detail about how they acted and acting out Chris' messages. The whole portrayal makes Phil laugh.

"He told me it was always the painters who were the most attractive," Dan says, "Always the painters and the, er, musicians," he finishes, realising what his stupidity has got him into too late. Phil nods awkwardly.

Dan opens his mouth to ask how Laura is, but is cut off by Phil.

"Laura dumped me," he announces curtly. "Before you ask," he continues, gaze sweeping down to the ground.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Dan says, the sorry overtaking the selfish joy in his stomach.

"Don't be. She was a cheating, lying bitch," Phil laughs bitterly. His bluntness juxtaposes the fact that his face is shadowed by his hair as he watches the floor.

"I can still be sorry. You don't deserve that," Dan insists. Phil shrugs. A incessant beeping cuts through the air.

"Isn't that the pizza?"

"Oh, yeah," Dan says,unfocused. "It is."

After eating, they head back up stairs. Dan tries desperately to not act differently around Phil, but there's a barrier destroyed. They don't mention Laura again.

After rehearsing again, Phil puts his violin down, frowning at the music.

"What's wrong?" queries Dan.

"Something's not quite right," Phil replies. "Do you have a pencil?"

Dan hands him one warily. Phil chews the inside of his cheek, before making a series of scribbles atop the pre-written music. Picking up his violin again, he plays the new script, and nods.

"Did you just write that?" Dan asks, eyes bulging.

"Yeah, it's not that hard," Phil says humbly.

"I think not," Dan shakes his head, "I told you that you're the genius around here."

The flushed grin that adorns Phil's face is embroidered golden thread under obsidian paint strokes.

The room is silent and iced with charcoal ether. Dan shifts around in his bed, everything greyscale before his eyes. Once they decided they could play it right, they had stopped - "Finally," Dan had said - and chatted and played video games until a time for sleep came. Phil's breathing had since dissolved into steady lifts and falls, the sound of waves washing on an ocean shore - but sleep has not come for Dan. He sighs, disgruntled, sitting up and moving the sheets around him.

"Can't sleep?" Phil's voice shocks the silence.

"I thought _you _were asleep," Dan mutters. There's the sound of blankets moving, and Phil props himself up on his elbow.

"I may have been. But you can't sleep."

"It doesn't matter," Dan mumbles. "Go back to sleep, I don't want to keep you up."

"You're not," Phil lifts his sheets, and stands slowly. The moonlight streaming in from the welcome gaps in the curtains reflects off his eyes, two shining coins in the darkness. "Name a piece. Something calm, preferably." His gaze leaves Dan's as he makes his way to the keyboard.

"What? No, you don't have to do that."

"I want to. This is meant to be one of those movie sleepovers, we have to keep up the pretense."

"There's no persuading you, is there?" Dan asks with a bemused smile.

"Nope. Relaaxxx," he sings.

"Don't do it," Dan joins in, then, "You're gross, you know that?"

"Shh!" Phil chastises. Dan raises his hands in surrender, settling back against the wall. He can just make out Phil's figure in the black as he starts to play. He recognises some of the tunes from Einaudi, and Dan starts to smile and lets his eyes shut. He stays awake, listening to new songs which carry similar, calming characters and convoluted notes which croon over the room. Phil finishes with turning the volume down and playing 'Starlight' with notes that dissolve into each other. The notion leaves a smile on Dan's lips. He holds the notes down, dragging them out as long as possible; he then stands and gets back into his bed on the floor.

"Thank you," Dan whispers. He shuffles closer to the edge of the mattress, arm hanging off the side.

"Any time," Phil replies just as softly, his twinkling eyes meeting Dan's.

"I can't do this. Fuck, I can't do this," Dan panics, taking his foot off the pedal to stop the stinging wrong notes.

"Dan, calm down."

"I can't! We're performing in less than twenty minutes, and I got it wrong!" Dan stresses, starting to card his hands violently through his hair.

"Dan," Phil repeats sternly, holding Dan's hands still with his own. "You're going to do fine," he soothes, starting to run his thumb over Dan's clenched fist.

"What if I mess up on stage?" Dan utters.

"You won't mess up. And even if you do, it won't matter. Just continue like normal. No one's going to be disappointed in you."

"But-"

"You're going to do fine, okay? You're going to do fine."

"Okay," Dan exhales. "Can I practise it again, though? To check I can do it?"  
>"No more practising," Phil shakes his head. "It's stressing you out too much."<p>

"But-"

"No. Talk to me instead."

So Dan does.

Dan walks with shaking legs when their names are called, and Phil brushes their fingers and squeezes his hand as he accompanies him to the auditorium door.

"You ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," Dan replies, taking steady breaths.

"That's the spirit," Phil grins at him encouragingly, before opening the door and stepping out. The auditorium is constructed with three towering walls stretching up to a roof lined with small windows; the fourth is draped with a large curtain curling round each side. The seats stretch up to the top, the floor with the curtain left bare except for a podium and a grand piano. Dan tries for a nervous smile to the audience, doing what Phil had told him, and seeing blank faces, not individuals."I've done several performances in my time, it always works," he had said.

"Alright, old man," Dan had teased him, but now he's grateful. He turns his attention away, focusing on the piano. Taking a seat at it, he adjusts the stool and the music. Phil stands a few metres away, tall with his violin perched elegantly on his shoulder. Phil smiles at him, and Dan smiles weakly back, nodding.

"Okay, Howell," he says silently to himself, letting his fingers fall onto the keys. He hasn't played a grand piano like this before, and the expanse of polished wood and strings revealed through the flesh is both enchanting and intimidating. He starts to play.

The way they had organised it, Dan is the first to play. The sway of notes fills the air, and then Phil joins in with long strokes. The addition of trills of semiquavers and the steady rhythm makes it pleasant to play, the drone of the violin adding to the dreamlike tone. The piano jumps octaves and clefs a few times, with some scales linking it together before collapsing back into the rhythm. The violin transitions from a steady hum to more notes sewn together, and Dan becomes quieter as Phil takes over. The piano deepens as the violin builds, steady jabbing strokes repeating over and over, becoming faster and faster - before descending into a lilt again. Dan's playing is resonant, relaxed climbs up a handful of keys. Medieval is the only way he can describe it, with high lullabies and gentle presses of the keys. He steals glances at Phil, biting back a grin. The other boy moves peacefully with the music, professional strokes made by his arms as a smile takes over his eyes and lips. Their gazes lock, and they grin excitedly.

The baritone piano begins again, and this time Phil plays the other violin part written into the original. His bow blurs as his fingers run over the strings, fast scales peeling out one after the other. The piece builds and builds, filling the quiet auditorium, and Dan's smile soon becomes uncontainable as it builds in him also. Suddenly, it drops; though Dan is expecting it, the change stirs surprise in him. The cacophony that has filled his head and heart is gone, returning to the collapse of quavers in small leaps over the piano.

He doesn't mess up once.

When they're finished, Phil turns and cracks a wide toothed grin at Dan as applause echoes around them. The applause, Dan knows, is nothing extreme, and it skims over him as he joins Phil and they exit together.

"Did you see that? I did it! I actually did it!" Dan exclaims gleefully as they walk up the corridor. Phil laughs in celebration and hugs him, arms encircling Dan's waist. He lifts Dan off the floor and spins him around in a mess of laughs, Dan's toes trailing across the floor. When he sets him down again Dan remains on tiptoes; his forehead could rest against Phil's, if he were to dare, and they smile at each other.

"You were amazing, by the way." Dan gushes.

"So were you," Phil replies, his breath tickling Dan's lips. "You did extraordinary; I'm proud of you."

Dan's grin pulls even further at his lips, so much that it looks painful; all he can feel, though, is the ethereal joy curling in his stomach.

"And I of you."

Phil's breath lands on Dan's as they get caught in some delicate lock of limbs. Phil's eyes are so painfully azure and beautiful, so much so that Dan's eyes are caught on them. But he does look away, looks away as his eyes flicker down, shyly, and up again.

Around them, the hall is an cosmos of sweat and calls as applause sweeps in through eroded doors, but it all crumbles around them as their eyes lock together again. All that matters is how Phil's firm grip is kept with his slender, gentle hands around Dan's waist, how his smile is mere centimetres from Dan's own. His erratic heartbeat comes a close second. And Dan can only describe it as how music flows as he leans in. It plays right and he knows where to go without thinking, and Phil's sweet and soft and gentle like some angelic lullaby as the melodies clash, his lips curling like the clef and sparking some other type of music that tingles in Dan's fingertips as they rest on Phil's hips. The scent of seaside icecream on Phil's skin, chocolate on Dan's lips. Pyrophoric _something _as they press closer together, bodies crushing and tangling. The intangible feeling that has haunted Dan flees, because now that he molds into Phil and trails his hands over the bumps of his spine like they're piano keys, it's like he can listen to him - can listen to each crescendo and decrescendo and chord - and can drink him and the elation in until he explodes. Their rapid breaths tangle as they pull away.

"We may not have won, you know," a smile carves into Phil's voice.

Dan raises an eyebrow. "Are you sure about that?" he challenges, before using the support of his hands on Phil's waist to lift his lips to Phil's again.

**_fin_**


End file.
